


Trust Me, I've Been There (REWRITE)

by FandomTrash



Series: "I'm sick of this place." - Teenage Years [2]
Category: Percy Jackson and the Olympians - Rick Riordan
Genre: (no, Actually scratch that - lotta language, Angst and Humor, Basically, Boys In Love, Established Relationship, HEADS UP: FIRST 5 CHAPS ARE PREQUEL-BASED, Horny Teenagers, I'm Sorry, Idiots in Love, Implied/Referenced Underage Drinking, Jason's Brotherly Disapproval, Mild Blood, Mild Language, Multi, Nico and Lou brotp, Nico's Still A Little Shit, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Percy Being an Idiot, Percy is a Dork, Punk Percy, Teenage Dorks, Teenage Rebellion, Triton Is Still A Jerk, Underage Smoking, Unresolved Sexual Tension, he's one of the gang now, it's official guys, not kinky shit)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-27
Updated: 2018-01-03
Packaged: 2018-12-04 16:02:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 23,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11558634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FandomTrash/pseuds/FandomTrash
Summary: Nico's friends used to call him 'Cactus' because he hated hugs and could spend a lifetime lost in a desert without getting lonely. When asked, he would never admit to the desolateness found in solitude.Percy's friends loved him for the surface. Much like an ocean, they adored him for the way the sun reflected on his surface, but never appreciating the unknown depths. Never considered what lie beneath a smile.It's all sort of sad, upon hearing these stories, of how one pushes away friends and the other has a deep desire to be surrounded in them. Ironic, in some sardonic way. But fate twists and it turns all the same.In the end, Nico muses, it's not about the journey or the destination – not any of that poetical shit. It's not about the moment, either, the immersion of watching it as it happens, the joy it brings from feeling the laughter.He's not really sure what it's about. He just knows it's tiring, and needs to stop.





	1. Oh Fuck Not This Shit

_"Can you remember who you were,_  
_before the world told you who_  
_you should be?"_

- Charles Bukowski

*

**CHAPTER ONE**

The idea of reuniting with an old foe in terms of peace should be elating, right? At least; I think so. Y'know, not so on bad terms anymore, getting along and all that shit. A harmony, if you will, a truce engraved in rotten wood.

Fuck that. Hand me pliers and I'll yank my teeth out, give me Clorox and I'll chug it until my throat burns from the inside out. Anything but having to see _her._ To endure the horror of reliving memories that will never quite be experienced the same way they once were. 

That face, so much like mine, so much more like our mother's. The pain, the woe, all of the in between that would occur so startlingly as to put me into shock. I'd try to tear it off if I saw it again. (Saw her again, I'd tear her to pieces through volition and projected self-loathing.) 

We're too...similar, I suppose, yet equally just as different. An inability to handle myself is just the same as being unable to handle her, and vice versa. The idea of cancelling each other out; too balanced: one cannot overthrow the other, nor can one simply defeat the other.

Gods, I don't want to believe she'll be making it back.

* * *

“Nico; someone on the phone for you.” I stare warily at my father, at how he carefully decided to not say _who_. Because, honestly, who the fuck uses the home phone anymore? Everybody I know has my number (not _everybody_.) Hazel sighs when I don't move, stuck in this stalemate with dad, and shoves me off the couch, “Go talk to the person on the phone, fratello.”

She still pronounces it 'frateyo', as if it's Spanish, as if the double 'L' creates a 'yuh' sound. I stopped trying to correct her years ago. Grumbling, I stand to my full height. The fact that I still don't even reach Hades' shoulder pisses me off. I stalk past him, to the little side-table out in the hallway. The phone's wire is so curled and frayed that it makes me wonder how the fuck it's still functioning, but the thought is pushed away. I press the phone to my ear, “Di Angelo. Who the fuck's calling me?”

“ _Fratellino,_ ” She purrs, teasing, cunning, fucking bitch.

My blood runs cold, needless to say.

Also notable; my breath falters.

“ _Oh c'mon, Neeks, you're not giving me cold-shoulder after all this time, are you?_ ” My throat is so tight, I can't breathe. Thoughts race, all the things I want to say, all the things I want to _do_ , all the things that remain unsaid between us making me want to scream until my throat is hoarse, but the thing is, my throat is already so fucking raw -

“ _Well, what the fuck ever,_ ” She huffs, “ _I'm coming home. Just thought I'd let y'know. Can't wait to see how short you still are, fratellino._ ” Silence stretches. My bones feel like lead, muscles and tendons pulled taught whilst my spine tries to snap from tension. She sighs, “ _Still not talking? Fine. Care to put father dearest back on the -_ ” I slam the phone back on the receiver. That's all I manage to do, before I crumple. Pathetically, piteously; paltry-like and numb.

What am I meant to be feeling?

Anger, apparently. The world's most universally simplistic emotion. The go-to of the many and unimaginable out there. (Grudgingly yearnful, forlornly alone in a world full of people.) Standing back up on staggering legs, mind in this strange in-between fuze state, I grab the phone. I slam it on the floor, kick it up against the wall and stomp on it until the plastic cracks. Gratuitous.

“You better not be fucking up the house, Nico, I swear to god -”

“Fuck off, you deadbeat!” I scream, voice reminiscent of something terrible and banshee-like. I storm up the stairs, feel the wood creak and bow under my force, rake my nails along the handrail and watch the glossed wood splinter and chip. I'm going to hate myself after this. I hear the chair slam back in the kitchen, where he hides like a fucking coward behind his papers, and the sound of his owns steps thundering through the house. I'm in my room before I can register it, throwing my closet against the door. I hear things topple over inside it.

And _oh my fucking gods_ her bed is still up there. Above mine, still dressed up in old green sheets that smell like her and the cigarettes she had before she left – I throw my lamp at it. It smashes, parts of it anyways, and I grapple at the shards and dig into the place where my bed becomes hers and just dig at it until progress happens.

I'm cut short by the bellow that carries through my door, “ _Open this fucking door, Niccolo Antonio di Angelo_ -” I snarl, “Or what?! What the _fuck_ are you gonna do?!” There's silence, before I imagine him ramming into the door. Both the closet and the dresser shake. Anger out the window, ice is inserted into my bloodstream and throws me through a loop. Dread. Fear. The usual things I wouldn't admit to falling victim of. “You have ten fucking seconds Nico, and if you don't open this door by then -”

I don't listen to the rest. I shove my cigarettes into my pocket, grab the box of matches and swing me leg over the windowsill. The hinges of my door start to loosen. “You're giving me ten seconds,” I shriek, “But I only need five, fucker!” Drop. That brief weightlessness before my feet connect with solid ground. _Oof._ Ankles – ankles, ouch. I limp, wobble, press up against the tree and huff through the pain. Then I book it.

Who the fuck needs to know where I'm going. I might as well pull a sorella and leave this shithole. My shoes are deafening on the sidewalk, and there's loud sounds from the dark, sunken-roofed house on the end of the street as I turn the corner. I briefly make out Poseidon's car trundling along, but I don't bother smiling and waving as he drives past. I can feel the question in his eyes. It doesn't deter me, his question, as I continue through the neighborhood.

Neighbors are glared at, hissed insults when they leer at me, and the little children skitter out of my path when I growl. I'm a fucking wreck. May not show it, may not look like it – may be too complex and aloof like all teenagers to tell the difference, but I _feel it_.

**Cherry Bomb sent:**

_**dude  
** _ _**junkyard** _

**at 04:13 PM**

Good enough. Redirecting my course, it's like an automated systematic response, this damned place I've been in so long, I know it like the insides of the human brain. (Read: I know it like the outface of the human brain, but beyond that, I know nothing more of the inner connections and relativity that surges through this little town like sentience burst to life.) I shove somebody over, not sure who, but they try to grab my wrist and whirl me around.

Letting them, I glower at their attempted hiss, watching them deflate and scatter away at the height difference. A smirk makes my face (I feel sick at the idea of being pleased by his reaction.) I continue on my way, huffing, teeth grit, fists so tight I can feel the pain pulse in my palms.

* * *

She's kicking loose pebbles when I arrive, head lowered and downcast in a display of emotions I'm not mature enough to handle. Lou glances up, hands in her pockets, “Sup, meathead.” Nodding at her, I lean against rubble, “What's got you doldrums, girly?” She smiles, weakly, a feeble attempt to cover up something that I've already witnessed far too many times. “Nothin' I guess, just,” She shrugs, sighing heavily, “Lonely? Maybe? Fuck if I know, dude.”

I pull out my cigarettes, anger closeted for time alone, and throw one at her. She wrinkles her nose as it lands near her feet, “You know I don't like the box-fags. They taste like shit.” Shrugging, I light my own and shove it between my teeth, “Well, start.” Lou cocks her head, all her hair – dyed blue, purple ends – tumbles to the side, “Start what, Nico?” I gesture; her slumped figure, her fatigue and her stress weighing her down into this distressed little bundle of... _Lou_.

“Why the fuck are you calling me up here Lou,” I keep my voice moderate, but she wont meet my eyes, “When you have band practice 'til seven on Fridays?” She shrugs, plays with her hair that's a little too long in this girlish way that doesn't fit quite right. “My mom -” She chokes, shrugs again. Falls quiet and doesn't make move to try a second time. I blow smoke at her, “What'd she do this time?” Lou shrugs, grudgingly picking up the fallen cigarette on the ground. She holds it out expectantly to me, to which I hold my lighter beneath. She takes a drag, then cringes.

“She – I dunno. She was just being bitchy. Said she expected better, wanted me to up my game and that I wasn't good en -” I shove her, “You know better than to believe that shit.” My voice reprimanding like something disappointed and grave and disapproving. She deflates, having been berated. I soften – still rigid, still scratchy and callous – “Just know that you're more than enough. For us.”

I shove my fag back in my mouth, take a drag, breathe it through my nose. I don't feel comfortable being thrust into this position, the one where I have to play _big brother_. I can barely keep my shit together around Hazel, forget Lou. But...she looks at me with those mossy eyes. Mossy, dark, sad, and all around simply pathetic in senses that I'd scrunch my nose at any other person. But this is Lou. One of my friends, dearest friends, longest friends. So, reluctant, I put my arm around her shoulders and shake her a little. “Get over it, Lou. Just words.” Do I get an A for effort? Probably not.

She huffs, shoves back at me, “Jerk.” I shrug, “I try.” It gets Lou to smirk at me.

After a while, she takes off, and I'm left alone. With thoughts, with emotions – Bianca is supposedly coming 'home'. Years without a word from her, without the knowledge if she was alive, if she'd been beaten to death and left in a ditch, if she'd stumbled upon riches and made headlines by some other name and some other face. I'm left to simmer and brood with lack of outlet.

I leave a while later, tense like a coil, and nowhere to go.

* * *

Later that same evening, with the bonfire blazing bright against the sands and the ocean a dark mass of sloshing mystery, I find myself at the rocks. Y'know, those long stretches of rock piled up in a strip – something to do with helping the beach expand? or...stop disappearing? The sand doesn't get carried away from the beach, anyways. Whatever. Geology stuff. I think. (Geography?)

I'd torn Octavian's head off 'bout some late payment or whatever. Lou said she'd help chip in tomorrow. I know she wont (can't.) It isn't even my Mary Jane, for fuck sake, why the hell am I the one getting the clack of his spindle-bones locking into place with his anger? Right. Right, because Cecil's too much of a fucking coward, unlike his brothers, and Lou...Lou is...I sigh. Alone, out to the rocks with the ocean lapping at the soles of my boots. It's a depressing way to spend a Friday night.

But then there's a presence shifting the air, the closer she gets, and her aura is thick like the pheromones an alpha would give off. Cocky, spiteful, looking for a fight. “Thalia,” I greet, bland and edging a snarl. Though if it's for her or the girl she lost one weekend a couple states away, I don't know. The smirk is heavy in the older Grace's voice, “Never can sneak up on you, huh?”

I shake my head. Alone, out of earshot but not beyond the wandering eyes, it is Thalia and Nico. Not that stupid bullshit bravado – _Grace, di Angelo_ – because I am not above her or of equal right to refer to her as such cold and impersonal names.

I remember when we would play together – all of us; Jason, me, Thalia, Bianca and whoever else's face I can no longer look at with any ounce of camaraderie. The memories are wiped away as quick as they came.

Thalia sits beside me. Blue hair, as spiked as that gods-awful choker 'round her neck. Not like I'm much better. Blue and black and blue some more; it's nothing new. Not really. “What's a lil' raven like you all the way out here, anyways? Thought you liked being the life of these shitty parties.”

“Ditto.”

“Touche.”

I don't look at her, she doesn't look at me. But there's something different about the ocean tonight, has been different for a few days now. The depths are welcoming. Cold, miserable, heavy and desolate, but welcoming. There is solace in the rhythm of the rolling waves, how they leach to my boots as if to drag me under, lure me in without the sirens. I'd go in willingly, stay 'til my lungs scream and stay a little longer.

She mutters something, barely a breadth above the ocean's waves, but I hear it clear like daybreak on a summer morning. “She's coming back.” I shake my head, “She's a liar.” Thalia hums doubtfully in the back of her throat, those intense eyes sliding to me in what I presume is a mixture of both pity and defiance, “You don't mean that.”

Scoffing, I roll my eyes, “What do you know, Thalia?” She scoffs with me, elbowing me none too kindly, “I know _you_ , Nico.” And god, Thalia sounds just like her, all harsh and tough with that undertone of something sisterly and begrudgingly affectionate despite the weight of her voice. “I know you, _Nico_.” She repeats. She stresses my name, like our mutual would have done, a repeat to hammer it to my skull, to ingrain the idea that she knows me like the human brain. (Read: she knows it like the outface of the human brain, but beyond that, she knows nothing more of the inner connections and relativity that surges through this little town like sentience burst to life.)

The tension chokes me into silence, but I don't bow my head or shy away. I'm not some scared pup. Thalia, she continues to watch me, pick apart the details of my face and the symptoms that would direct her next dialogue. “Little crow's feathers are ruffled,” Is her murmured observation, “Been ruffled for a while now, huh? Wolf's hackles're raised up.” It's a strange analogy. I can't make the connection. But she sounds wise and worn when she says it, so I don't argue.

Her presence leaves quickly after that; I'm left alone once again.

Not...angry, not totally angry. It's still there, that residual fire lurking in the background, but for now, a melancholia engulfs me – cold, unforgiving, like the ocean. I'm reminded of that one song. The one by some band, goes sort of like – _should I sink or swim? Or simply disappear?_ But I don't dwell on it for long.

Busy di Angelo; places to mope, people to scream at, a bedroom that needs some refurnishing.

* * *

My hands ache. A deliberate throb, muscles tense and sore from the destruction that lay about. The remains of her bed. Sawed off just below the bed-frame. My hands are splintered, my heart is racing, my chest is heaving. I don't remember even returning home, no less dragging this thing out to the junkyard.

Her bedding is still on it; green forests and stupid cotton pillows with fleecy covers. I hope they rot out here. I've dragged this thing a ways away from where me and the guys are bound to wander. It's halfway into the Styx – this ooze of a river that's black like tar but holds the liquidity of regular water. The water is bound to cause some damage. Infest the wood, soak in the cotton, whatever else would make this thing start to decay.

It's late, now. Beyond midnight, sometime into Saturday by now. I can't help but shiver. Because, really, who the fuck is out here at stupid times trying ridiculously hard not to cry over a _goddamn bed_ of all things. (How fucking pathetic.)

I stare out to the creak. Dark, shallow, alluring in a grim sort of way. It doesn't reflect the stars or the moon, doesn't glitter in sharp streaks like the ocean does. Just a quiet, barely audible, barely visible stream that cuts through the gritty soil and reeds. With a huff, I stand, flex my fingers until I feel the strain ebb away. They're still stiff, though that'll be there for a while. I look around; there isn't much to see, but my feet start carrying me down familiar paths that lead the way into thickets of trees. It becomes an entire forest before long.

The cliffside.

Looming shadows, breezes rustling the leaves, the shift of foliage that isn't caused by me. Paranoia would set in, if it was any other person. I've lived here for the majority of my life; I know it's nothing more than a small creature. It may not resemble anything we were taught back in elementary, but they coexist without fear. If they are so bold, why the fuck shouldn't I be?

Off tangent.

Hike, hike, hike; that's all I need to do. Immerse myself in the quiet and ignore everything else. Shit – got a headache coming on, and every sound is magnified. The crunch of leaves, snapping twigs and my own heartbeat pound like separate metronomes out of beat. It all pounds in my head; heavy, deafening.

I hate to admit it, but there's this wrongness that's settled in my chest. Like a cavity, niggling at the back of my mind constantly until it grows into something worse. (Fear, Nico, it's fucking fear you're feeling.) And, much like a cavity, I can't get that phone call off my mind.

Just – her _voice_ , the fact that it was _her_ in general. I haven't heard her teasing for years, haven't experienced that sharp flash of irritation that nobody but her could plague my system with. A vitriolic, virulent nostalgia that eats away at me. I dig my heels into the dirt, before I fall back on my ass and stare out. Out here, all the way up here, away and away and away, I can see the tides.

Frothy and white, foaming up against the rocks down below. Each ripple, each wave outlined by the moonlight. Up here, the moon reaches everything. I try to breathe it in – _try, try,_ _ **try**_ – but I only choke and curl my knees to my chest.

Bianca's coming back.

And something in my cant seem to cope with that.

* * *

“Somethin' on your mind, kid?” I glance up at the guy. Beer-belly, gruff beard, eyes droopy in a way that either advertizes weariness or a poorly recovered hangover. I shrug, run my finger around the rim of my bottle, “Nah.” Gleeson, that's his name. Gleeson Hedge; retired coach from some uppity school in Seattle. Coach; that's what we end up calling him.

He raises a bushy eyebrow, but doesn't say more. It's enough that he's actually giving me drinks – I'll be pushing it if I start pouring my heart out onto the bartop. I glance up, look around. Hedge's moved on to some guy looking like he's on a business trip. White-collar individual. Coincide, he does indeed have a very crisp, immaculate collar. Skinny tie, flashy watch, tan-line where a wedding brand would be. Another of many that tend to frequent California; not just this little hellhole, but most of the state.

His eyes flick to me, before he's smirking and muttering something to Hedge. The stout man rolls his eyes, but starts mixing some intoxicant elixir I'll gladly drink for free. Mr Rich makes his way past me, winks, and settles himself at a table for two relative to the bar. I roll my eyes. But...just to fuck with him, I bat my eyes innocently at Hedge when he slides over the drink. A something On Rocks.

Hedge points over to Mr Rich. I turn to look at him, before rolling my eyes. I watch the smirk drop. I down his drink in a few gulps. Bitter. Burning, acidic. Like the rest of them. “What was it?” I ask. Bartender shrugs, “Bourbon. Neat.” I hum, “Weak.” Hedge scoffs, flicks my forehead in this weird-fond gesture. I smirk at him, “C'mon, you know me.” He nods, “Whiskey and that fancy 'Talian shit.” I gasp, hand to my chest, “My, my, Coach. If you were a flashy business man, I'd jump you right the fuck now.” He snorts.

I swoon melodramatically, hand to my forehead, “But alas!” Hedge scratches his nose, rolling his eyes as I push my empty glass pointedly towards him, “Your are lacking the watch, the fancy cell, the strong, _deliciously expensive_ whatever else!” Hedge shoves me a little, sliding over a refill, “And I'm married, kid.”

“That doesn't stop them,” I waggle my eyebrows for effect.

Hedge rolls his eyes, but he smiles. Good enough for me.

Then he furrows his eyebrows a little, “Better slow down there, di Angelo. You gotta walk home t'night.” I nod, and sip leisurely from the glass. Short glass; for whiskies and and rum-gin-tonic things. Dunno what they're fucking called, but I couldn't give a damn. Not bourbon. Scotch. I smirk, “You're a fuddy-duddy.” Hedge just leaves me a chilled bottle of water.

Mr Rich makes a reappearance. His cologne makes me choke, but he must take it for the drink. “What's a lil' thing like you doing all the way out here?” He purrs, breath heady with alcohol and his eyes hazed in this way that would probably be mistaken for attractive. Lustful. Drunk. “Enjoying a Friday night,” He raises a suggestive eyebrow, “ _Alone._ ” His smirk drops. “Listen here,” He hisses, “I just bought you a fuckin' drink, you lil' shit -”

“He bothering you, Nico?” I roll my eyes. Jason. “Nah, he was just telling me how modest and humble he is.” Jason hums, before ducking low and kissing my cheek, “How kind of him.” I ignore what happens next. The whole...debacle thing. Jason firmly telling the man that I'm 'taken', that he needs to go find somebody else.

Jason replaces Mr Rich at the bar, “What're you doing all the way out here, Neeks?” I shrug, “Drinkin'.” He rolls his eyes, and presses the water bottle to my hands. My fingers tingle idly. Jason drinks the rest of my scotch. He winces a little at the taste – always just been a regular beer kinda guy, and I guess I can appreciate it. Rather have the strong shit, though. Blue eyes gaze at me for a long time, persistent and icy. Then, he shifts.

“What happened, Nico?”

I tense up, before forcing myself to relax, “Nothing, Jay.” He doesn't sound convinced, the sound he makes says so, but fuck him. Fuck him and his stupid morals, all that shitty doting bullshit and that fucking...fucking _look_. Pitying but not? Sorta like disappointment. That'd make sense. Jason's always fucking disappointed. Life sucks.

“Your face says otherwise, dude.” I shrug his hand away, rolling my eyes, “My face always says otherwise, dipshit.” The blond runs his hand through his hair, frustrated probably, but I can't bring myself to care too much. I'm cruel and heartless like that. Selfish.

“C'mon, dude, it's late. Let's get you home.” I huff, rolling my eyes. Fishing out my wallet, I ask Hedge how much – “Since when've I ever made you pay?” Sighing, I leave ten on the bartop anyways, absconding before he can say otherwise. We walk in silence; streets still occupied by the occasional drunkard, but not much else. Saturday nights for you. “What – what're you even doing out here anyways, Grace?”

He shrugs, “Hazel called.” Shit. I wince, “Fuck.” He shrugs again, “Says you didn't come home. At all.” I purse my lips, head hung, “I...” Don't really have any excuses. Not when it comes to Hazel. So, night air crisp, I shrug. Jason runs a hand through his hair, grabbing my hand as he leads me through the streets, “Get an apology ready, di Angelo. She sounded pretty upset.”

Wincing, I nod, “I just.” Shaking my head, I reluctantly press up a little to his side. Jason doesn't object, squeezing my hand, “I heard about...the phone call, okay? She called Thals, too. And I get that it's hard -” I shoot him a withering look, but he only hesitates a little before continuing. He knows me too well to know that I wont dare touch him. “But people need you, y'know? You cant run away and drink every time something bad happens.” I don't reply.

“Who says that her coming back is a bad thing, anyways?” Me.

“So you want a damn bitch worse than Tanaka back in town?”

Jason sighs, “Maybe she's matured -” I roll my eyes, “Doubtful.”

Apparently I've pressed all of Jason's buttons this evening, since he doesn't reply. Though, he sighs disdainfully, clearly annoyed. He doesn't push me away. (I'm grateful.) We near my neighborhood eventually, and I glance at him pensively, “You comin' in, or...?” He scoffs, but there's a smile – one that settles frayed nerves and consoles the anxiety in my pulse – “And risk the ungodly wrath of your father? I think not.”

Huffing, I punch his arm, “How could you leave me defenseless?” He sobers a little, stopping me before my house, “It's your fight.” Then he grins, blue eyes all bright and blond hair too stark in the dark, “Text me tomorrow, yeah?” I nod. He ruffles my hair before turning around and walking away.

I wait until he's out of my sight, like a coward, before turning to the looming hell. My bedroom light is on. I decide to climb to my room, instead of deal with Hades. The brickwork doesn't crumble as much as it used to; foot and hand holes now worn into the wall and very gapingly noticeable.

He hates me for it.

Propping up the window, I slip through the gap and roll gracelessly onto the floor. The room feels lighter, despite the angry bundle on my bed. _Only_ my bed. The lamp remains have been cleaned up, whatever is left of it apparently still functioning as it perches on my nightstand. The closet has been moved back to it's original position and has been ransacked (by one angry blanket bundle for candy.) there's a dent in the door now, but that's okay.

The only thing out of place is her bed. It's good to have it gone. Like a weight off my chest.

I, from my position on the floor, turn to my little sister. She glowers at me menacingly from beneath my hoodie, “Where have you been.” She doesn't sound amused. I sigh, feeling bad, “Out. Moping. Sulking.” Because that is, in a nutshell, how I have spent half my weekend.

She doesn't need to know about the drinking part.

Hazel huffs, trying to keep her resolve a little bit longer. But I can see the relief that drains the tension from her little frame – I'm _alive_ , I'm _home_ – and eventually she slinks from my bed to sit beside me on the floor. Hazel grudgingly shares her blanket with me, after noticing that I'm...shivering. Huh. Shows how attentive I am.

“You okay now?” She asks. I nod, rolling onto my side to wrap my arms around her, “Sorellina, I'm so sorry -” One of her small hands come to cover my mouth. I hear the forgiveness seep into her words, even if she is still a little mad, “It's okay. I...daddy told me 'bout Bianca calling.” I grit my teeth at her name. “She's not coming home,” I mutter, “She's _not._ ” She doesn't respond.

Wordlessly, I stand, dragging Hazel up onto my hip, “Bedtime, you.” She whines, gripping my shirt, “Your bed! Please?” Humming, I pretend to consider, “Y'know...ten year olds don't sleep in their big brothers' beds...” She pouts.

It's worth it, to watch her face split into a grin as I drop her onto my bed, “But I think I'll make an exception.” She chirps contentedly at me, making grabby hands. I gently brush her off, standing to shuck off my jeans and my jacket. She frowns as something falls out of my pocket, “What's that, fratello?” I blink, glancing down at – _shit._ I swipe it up before she can get a better look, “Nothing dolcezza. Nothing.” I shove the pill bottle back into my pocket. (It's not pills, it's weed. I'll give it to Cecil tomorrow.)

I settle into bed, brushing her hair behind her ear, “You done your homework?” She nods. “What about rehearsing that ukelele part?” She nods again, grinning, “I can play the first part, now.” I grin, pecking her cheek, “Sounds awesome, sis.” She nods once more, curling up in my side, “You'll love it.” I have no doubt. Reaching over, I turn out the light.

In the dark, I swear I see Hades watching us through a gap in my door, but he's gone when I look.

* * *

The following morning, I wish I died from alcohol poisoning.

Hazel's missing from my side, and the devil himself glaring down at me. Hades, arms folded, unimpressed, “About time you woke up, brat.” Such kind, loving words. You can tell we're an All-American Functioning Family TM. “Fuck off, asshat.” Eloquent. Sitting up, I rub my eyes, “How'd you even get in?” I glance to the door. My drawer-unit is still crammed against the door, and the floor doesn't show any signs that it had been moved recently. Leaving only the window.

“Jesus, you fucking creep.” Hades snarls a little, gripping my hair in a suddenly tight fist, forcing me to look at him, “Where have you been?” I shrug, scathing tone, “Wouldn't you like to know.” He throws me back on my bed, pointing to the bedposts, “What the fuck have you done with her bed?” I shrug again, standing and wiping spittle from my chin. I brush past him, grabbing my jeans, “What the fuck have you done with your compassion?”

Hades bristles, before smoothing a hand through his hair, “I don't need your goddamn backtalk, Nico, I need answers. You had me worried -” I snorted, shouldering him out the way of my closet, “Worried my ass. If you were _so terribly concerned_ ,” I hiss, turning to look at him, “Then you would've done something 'bout it.” he doesn't have a response for that, and I feel like gloating.

I don't, however, knowing that I can only push my luck so far. So I grab my leather jacket, and shove my cigarettes and lighter into the pockets, “I don't give a _shit_ about anything you have to say.” Hades' jaw clenches as he moved towards me. I skirt out of his range, and slip through the gap in my door. Huffing, I stop in the hallway.

I've effectively just locked a lion in a cage. _Damn._

Fuck it. I brush it off – he can get out the way he came in. I jog down the stairs three at a time, storming into the kitchen. I swing open the fridge, colored post-it notes fluttering off. All from me, of course, a new one added whenever he pisses me off. Grabbing one of the bottles of cola, I slam the fridge shut and swipe the stack of yellow notes off his work binders, and snatch a pen.

_do you regret conceiving me yet?_

They're pointless, really. Not exactly insulting him, either, mainly just a lot of self-hating shit that stumps him whenever he reads them. It's amusing to watch him blink bewilderingly.

I make my way into the living room, stuttering to a stop. There she is, the bitch herself. Dad's current girlfriend; a little bit younger (gross,) with fake tits and botox lips. I sneer as I stalk past, looking for Hazel. She's not in here. Then I remember that Hazel has sleepovers at Frank's on the weekend and settle a little.

Persephone glances at me from her magazine as I head for the door, “Where're you going, temper tantrum?” I'll have to WikiHow to not kick a lady in the face. “Away from your bitch fits.”Her eyes widen comically, brass and bronze igniting with this deep-set hatred that could've been rooted for centuries before we met, for all I know. I flip her off, ready to leave -

suddenly I'm being pinned to the door.

Her false nails dig into my skin; fuck, she files them into claws for all I know. I don't let out a pained sound, but squirm as she yanks me by my wrist, “Do you know how fucking annoying you are? Getting into trouble, giving your father such a hard time – you really are just a piece of shit, aren't you?” I shrug, smirk, “Old news. Give me something fresh.” Persephone's a journalist, after all.

She flushes with anger, slamming my wrist against the door handle, “You. Little. Shit. I swear to gods, I'm going to make you one miserable little fucker -”

“Too late for that -” I kick her shin, because anything else is gonna get me into even deeper shit than I'm already in, so whilst she cries out, I dart out of the house. Just on time, too; I hear my father storming down the stairs. Shit, shit – Poseidon's house. He'll let me over.

I race across the street, knocking on this door. He opens it, a little confused, “Oh, Nico -” I clasp my hands together, “Let me in? For just a second.” The man sighs, but steps aside for me to press myself against the wall. Poseidon ruffles my hair, “What've you done this time?” Shit. He motions for me to follow him into the kitchen, where he pours me a glass of water. I scoff, affronted, “What do you mean what have _I_ done? For all we know, it could've been that _whore -_ ”

He gives me a sharp look. I snap my mouth shut, my apology muttered into the rim of my glass. Poseidon runs a hand through his hair, looking worn out and old again, despite his normally youthful look, “You know you can't hide here forever, right?” I nod, “I know.” He gives me a pitying look, frowning a little. He still looks tired.

“What's got you beat, anyway?” He shrugs, hand in his hair once again whilst he yawns, “Lawsuits, Nico.” I startle at the phrase, “Jesus, what did you _do_?” Chuckling, Poseidon shakes his head, “Custody cases, Nico, don't worry. Unlike you, I am an innocent.” I find that hard to believe. “If you say so.” Then, “Wait, who's custody?” He shifts a little anxiously in his chair, green eyes glued to the table, “My son's. You haven't met him.”

I slump a little, relaxing into my chair, “Well, he can't be any worse than the other two you have, right?” At that, a little bit of life returns, as he chuckles deeply, “He's wonderful, Nico. I think you'll like him.” In response, I only hum, and stand to leave.

“Well,” I mutter, “It's a matter of him liking me, 'Seidon.” I walk to the door, and upon opening it, nearly miss his words next words. “He's going to love you.” I have my doubts.

* * *

**O sent:**

_**you got my money or what** _

**at 09:43 AM**

Piece of shit motherfucker. I huff, glowering down at my phone. Cecil slumps lazily against me, giggling to himself. I smile a little, but when those lazy eyes roll over to me, I smother it with a scowl, “You got the money?” Cecil grumbles incoherently, nuzzling the collar of my shirt, “Who needs money any – anyways? Money's allshtuppisa...” Great. Sighing, I look at him again, then back down at my phone.

You sent:

_be over in 2 hrs_

at 09:45 AM

My younger friend blinks blearily down at my phone, “Who's O?” I nudge him away, rolling my eyes, “Nobody 'Cil.” He furrows his eyebrows, obvious efforts to sober up a little, “What money d'ya owe -” I grab the hand with his joint in it, and bring it to his mouth, “Chill, my man. I've got it.”

And I do, of course. I was just sorta hoping that maybe I'd have some spare cash for the week, but well – _silly me_ , thinking that my friends are fucking competent enough to chip in for weed-money. ( _Silly me_ , getting angry at them when I know full-fucking-well that they can't afford it.) I ruffle Cecil's hair, looking around. It's quiet today; Lou's off making up for band practice, and Solace is spending his Sunday volunteering at the animal shelter. Typical.

I doubt Jason really wants to see me, after Saturday. Cecil yawns, taking a drag, before yawning again, “Y'sure?” Sure? About what? _Nothing. I'm not sure about anything Cecil, but it's all o-fucking-kay, promise._ “Yeah. I'm sure.”

Now where to get thirty dollars. _Oh wait._ (Who's father is the head of the goddamn morgue?)

For now, I recline against the huge hunk of driftwood, watch the waves lap at the shore. Maybe I'll just drown. That'll get me out of my problems (it wont.) Cecil hums drunkenly, watching his joint just smoke away, “You're wasting that, y'know.” He shrugs, looking up at me. “Thanks.” He says. There's unsettling clarity in his hazel eyes, on his relaxed – grateful, thankful – face. I don't reply.

Sometimes I wonder how I got stuck with this freak.

Other times I wonder how he got stuck with me.

* * *

It's no easy feat sneaking into my dad's room. It's where he keeps the important things; (even more) files and folders, alcohol (wine, gin, all that good shit,) keys, cigarettes, cellphone (if it isn't on his person,) and most importantly? Wallet. A wallet full to the brim with cash he loves to shower and lavish his whore-of-a-girlfriend with. He'll notice if a bit goes missing.

I snatch it, sifting through the notes and loose change in it's leather-bound trap. Ten...twenty...that should do. I'll cover the rest of it. I slam the wallet back down on his nightstand, huffing as he stalk out of his room. I hate being in there. Smells like lavender and spices and I fucking hate it. (I fucking love it, but I loved it more on the woman the scent belonged to.)

To my relief, there is nobody in the hall as I step out. I pull the door shut without preamble, slinking into my room. I notice that Hades has moved my set of drawers. With a grunt, I shove the unit back up against the door, before raking a hand through my hair and looking around for my own wallet. I don't take it out a lot. Most of the time I drop low to stealing, because I never have much money to spend. What I do spend cash on tends to be cigarettes. Productive.

So I hook a finger into the worn pocket of some old bomber jacket shoved into the corner of my closet. Gum, spare cigarettes...wallet. I grab it, wrench it open and – ten dollars. _Right._ 'cus I left Coach a ten last night out of guilt. _Fuck._ Thirty dollars...that doesn't cover the weed I got. Shit.

I bite my lip. My gaze travels through the gap in my door to Hazel's bedroom.

(Gods, I'm fucking disgusting.)

I want to cry, honestly. How low do I have to be to fucking steal from my little sister? Ten dollars! Ten dollars that she fucking _rightfully earned_ , then there's just me. Thieving from my dad is one thing, but then from – from _Hazel?_ I gag a little as I tug the papers from her glittery little purse. _Fuckfuckfuck._ I'll pay her back. Somehow. Just as long as it's before she gets back tomorrow, it'll be fine. (She usually stays at Frank's 'til Monday after school.)

A restless feeling settles into my gut, as I leave the house. I drop my skateboard onto the sidewalk, listening to the wheels clack against the concrete and wishing it was my skull.

The travel there is little more than a blur, my thoughts flooded. ( _Hazel, Hazel – how much of a fucking greedy bitch are you, Nico?_ **Bianca, ~~Bianca~~ , _Bianca_ – fuck, she's coming home and you know it.** _Hazel, sweet little sorellina, you goddamn monster how could you_ **but Bia's coming back, maybe she'll make it all okay.** ~~You've got yourself in deep shit, di Angelo.~~ ) Fuck.

The towering, shambling mess of bricks and paint that is Octavian's apartment building towers over me. I feel small under its shadow, but when is there a time I _don't_ feel small? I step in, ignoring the receptionist. I'm sure she's a kind girl, but I just don't care for pleasantries.

It's bad enough that half the money I have isn't even mine.

I skip the elevator, trekking up a couple flights before speed-walking along the blue-gray carpeting of the hall leading to Octavian's apartment. With my luck, it's only Rachel home at the moment, and she can pass the money on. Though, from past experiences, my luck runs cheap.

After the first knock, Rachel's mess of red hair is the first thing I see. The warm of her petite body crushing me in her arms, giggles mingling with the leather of my jacket, “Nico! C'mon, c'mon, he's in the living room.” I nod, letting the artist drag me through their humble little apartment. She's got another project she's working on, I notice, as I spare a glance to the coffee table.

An easel with some half-chalked sketch set by the window, fresh canvases stacked whilst two are being Picasso'd and another one in the process of being layered in thick acrylic. I smile at the images; I can't make them out from this distance, especially as they glisten in sunlight streaming through the window, but I mutter, “Lookin' good.” Rachel gushes a little, before piping down and returning to her corner of the couch. I lean on the backrest of Octavian's chair, “Yo.”

Octavian cranes his neck to look at me, bird-boned motherfucker that he is, with some stupid twist to his twitching smile, “di Angelo.” I nod, “Octi.” There's satisfaction in watching his grin morph into a crude grimace at the name, “How's things?” I shrug, “They're goin'. You?” The blond nods, “Ditto.”

Then he stands, a full head shorter than me, maybe more (about Lou's height,) “Got my money?” I nod, hand suddenly clammy as I stuff my hand into my back pocket and pull out the cash, “All there.” His skinny fingers leaf through them, before his mouth twists again. I remain stone-faced, breathing even, despite the fact that I want to scream. _Hazel's, Hazel's, Hazel's_. I swallow as Octavian seems to mull something over in his head, maybe a spat of math, or perhaps some conniving scheme for more moola. Which he wont be getting.

“You're short.” What.

I snort, raising an eyebrow. “No I'm not,” It's said coolly, despite the fact that I know I'm short. But that had been expected. “Five dollars short, di Angelo.” I shake my head, “I bought two dubs, Octi, not an eighth.” He sneers at me, “I remember you buying an eighth. If you're trying to skimp me out on this good green that I have the fucking generosity to share with you -”

Grabbing his shoulder, I easily sit him back down in his chair, taking calming breaths, “Your client notebook will say I got two dubs, because I wrote it down myself. And one dub is twenty, right? So, you do the math.” He seems to consider it, blue eyes sharp and calculating, “Five dollar compensation, di Anglelo. You tailed the cops with you last week.” I did. _Shit._

“I already paid that off on Thursday, remember? And I got you a connection to the Stolls.” Rachel glances up from her painting, concern in her vibrant eyes, but she keeps her mouth shut. Like she always does. Poor girl; I'll take her with me one day. Get her outta this shithole, introduce her to all the fancy galleries. _I'll take everybody I can._

Octavian finally settles, stuffing the dollars in his pocket, “Right. That all?” I nod, “Sorry for getting' it late, though. Y'know how things are.” He smirks at this, “How's that bitch doing?” I roll my eyes, tugging my sleeve down, “Eh. Kicked her this morning, so I'm due for hell at some point.”

There's discomfort in watching his eyes flicker down to my wrist. Shit. “She do something?” I shrug it off, “Nah, man. Just...no.” Though, I do nothing to deter him from pulling up my sleeve and brushing cold fingers over the red welts (turning scabs) on my flesh, “Shit, di Angelo. Need something for that?” I shake my head, “No I'm good. I gotta get going anyway, so.” He nods, and absconds to his bedroom. That leaves me and redhead. I shuffle over, resting my elbow on her head, “Whatcha working on, Red?” She snorts, “Prophecy.” I whistle lowly, before patting her shoulder, “Good luck with that.”

She nods, and I feel her eyes on me as I slink to the door. “You'll be world famous someday,” I call. I hear her laugh, unbelieving, “So will you, Nico. So will you.” Neither of us believe it.

* * *

Bianca.

Bianca.

Bianca.

Cold waves slosh and lap at the shores, at my toes, licking up to my ankles. I tip my head back, watch the stars. No light on the beach right now; it's not Friday, nor is it bustling with people. Just my lonely self, the darkness and the moon. There's no difference from water and sky. But I'm here, with a heavy heart and unconsoled anger in my veins.

Maybe I'll die here. I'll never leave, never get that chance that she got, never _escape._ I can't wait for her to comeback empty-handed, head hung like a bad dog. She left, and what for? _Nothing._ There is nothing out there, nothing to see, nothing worth – nothing worth... _anything._ It's all for naught. Which in itself is ironic, because mamma always said that there was something for you out there; that you just had to go find it.

Bianca will be living fucking proof that this is all just a dead end, hopeless and barren, mess of conflict that all gets settled in the end. By the inevitable: death. Subsumed by the sun, haywire asteroids, radioactive leakages and spite of an ancient-old ocean. We'll die, somehow. Perhaps even by our own hands.

And I can't fucking wait to watch her stumble to the door, weary and mistreated by the horrors of this goddamn trainwreck we like to glorify and shove its mistakes under the carpet. I'll laugh when she asks for pity, asks for acceptance; forgiveness.

Because Bianca's always gotten her own way.

Not this time, not last time, not ever from me.

I wonder if she hates me.

After all this, I wonder if she'll tolerate my presence, let alone look at me. I'm the reason she left after all, and damn if it's not eating away at me. Has been eating at me for a while, now. I wonder if she hates me. Or if she even remembers I exist, since she so freely seemed to forget about me when she ran away that one weekend in Arizona. Thalia still blames herself.

Sometimes, I blame her too. Because what else is there to blame?

Other times, I blame myself. Because, y'know, everybody's gotta blame themselves somehow. It's a normal thing, to find a way to blame yourself, or turn the blame onto somebody else entirely. It's funny that I'm trying to pave over this little fault, as if it isn't the San Andreas Fault and it'll just stay in piece with some Elmer's Glue and glittery decorations. I smirk, glancing up at the moon.

Bianca always liked the moon. And with that thought in mind, I let myself fall into the waves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GUYS. GUYS, GUESS WHO GOT 'ROUND TO REWRITING THIS FUCKING PIECE OF SHIT. THAT'S RIGHT: _this guy_. 
> 
> okay, okay, okay. the first chapter is shit: they're all gonna be fucking shit, because this is _me_ we are talking about. But, yeah, to start off - first few chapters are gonna be NICO POV, but will not specifically be kept to the first five chapters, okay? I'll probably switch 'em back and forth between Percy and Nico, just to keep things a little entertaining. But after Chapter Five? All back to the present, with Nico in Nevada and Percy being a heartsick Little Boy Blue, just where we left off. 
> 
> I'm really sorry this took so fucking long to get around to, I've just been really busy with shit. If you looked at the notes in those pathetic excuses for one-shots and stupid cousin-incest shit that nobody's into, you'll see I've just had a lot on my plate, and hopefully you guys can forgive me. Also, I'm slowly going back through [A Mother's Cautionary Tale](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11026983/chapters/24575760) and fixing up mistakes or inconsistencies within the pattern of setup I like to use when writing. so, y'know, if you haven't read that shitty thing yet, then I suggest you should (look at that self-inserted promo right there.)
> 
> Sorry that this isn't as long a first chapter as the other fic had been; I just feel that there's less need for introduction, now that we've gotten all the way to some half-assed addition to the series. But, uh, also apologizing for the fact that there's a lot less of a turbulent, violent inner-Nico dialogue? Because I know that was a prominent thing in AMCT, but i feel that is more due to Percy's part on opening Nico up a little. so with Nico being all bottled up, he's glossing over a lot of the anguish he feels towards - well, everything (Persephone, Bianca, Hades, etc.) Hope that clears some stuff up.  
> ANYWAY. Hope you guys enjoyed this first chapter to the _"NEW AND IMPROVED"_ rewrite. Also; if anybody has some suggestions, please fucking help me with both the Chapter Title and the story's Title, because they're both shit and need working on. Fucking hell, welcome back.


	2. Like On The TV

_"Like you ain't just another raggedy piece of cloth like me."_

\- RJ Walker

*

**CHAPTER TWO**

Anticipation is half the agony. The wait, the dread in knowing that soon what you loathe so much will be in your face, on your doorstep. Grinning prettily, blinking maliciously, a lingering _I'm here now_ left to haunt you.

So maybe that's an exaggeration for some. The idea that an enemy is becoming a friend should elate me, should make me happy and soothe frayed nerves, right? Not if that enemy has no intentions of forming a truce in the first place.

Coincide, I hope she rots in Arizona sun. It'll be another twist of fate, if luck is on my side, because that's where she left. The desert never truly lets people go, I've heard, and maybe that's why people called me 'Cactus'.

The idealization is that she never makes it home. She never makes it past state borders, never survives the heat the lower down the country she goes, having been thrust into the city life full of functioning AC's and 50+ sunblock.

I want her grim, sun-baked remains to stare up at me emptily.

* * *

Monday. Last...Last week of school. I poke at the eggs and bacon my mom's prepared for me, not really as hungry as I should be. She sighs, from across the table, looking worn out and stressed. These court meetings are really wearing her out; especially because she's losing.

“Well, hey,” She smiles, but it's weak, and I don't really understand why's she's trying in the first place, “We still have a whole week together, right?” I shrug, and stuff my mouth with bacon so I don't have to answer her. It tastes flavorless; dry, soft. Not crunchy, greasy goodness. Maybe this is my body already trying to stave me off the familiarity of mom's cooking, so the hit wont be so hard. “Yeah,” I mutter, “A _whole_ week.” Such a long time.

She sighs, before playing with her hair. She's gained more grays in it since the start of this mess, I think. But...Paul's been making her better, I guess. More than I can do. “Guppy...” I glance up, before dropping my gaze. I can't look at her without feeling bad. “I'm trying here, y'know?”

I shrug. Of course it would take this direction.

“Mom, I'm...I gotta get ready for school, so.” She sighs again, sounding like there's years of weight on her shoulders. I suppose that isn't far from the truth. “Just be careful? Stick to Annabeth and Grover, okay?” Right. I nod, because mom doesn't know I broke up with Annabeth weeks ago, and Grover smokes pot.

My room is small, like it's always been. New York apartments tend to be compact. I knock my knee into the bedpost – ouch. Cursing under my breath, I shuffle around for clothes; blue jeans, blue shirt. A glance out the window says it's raining. I grab my jacket, too. It's pretty bland, if I'm honest, but I'm pretty bland so I suppose it works. (It's all my mom's ever raised me to be; stick to the crowd, behave, blah blah blah, conformity.)

I wish I had a skateboard.

I wish I had character.

I wish I had a life.

Maybe that's asking too much. Especially with the type of person my mother is. Running a hand through my hair, I glance at the little mirror propped up on my wall: glazed eyes, almost sort of moth-eaten. My mom looks like this. A lot of people in New York look like this; monochrome suits, heavy brief-cases, black umbrellas and washed-out faces. Cellphones, conference calls, slurred words and downpour.

With a sigh, I grab my backpack and pull up my hood, before walking to the door. “Percy?” Mom calls. I glance over my shoulder at her, “Yeah?” She stands from the table, walking over to me in that tired gate from standing in the candy shop all day, “Stay safe. I mean it.” I roll my eyes, and nod. I leave before she can kiss my cheek; I don't know if I feel bad or not.

* * *

The answer is no, I think, as I stumble onto school grounds. A prettied-up building that was refurnished and rebuilt over the summer. First glance around tells me that I'm safe. For now. My pace picks up as I make it into the building, bag suddenly unbearably heavy on my shoulder. I shove everything into my locker, before slamming it shut and leaning against it.

Ethan appears, seemingly form nowhere, grinning, “Hey Jackson! You coming to swim-practice after school today?” I look over to him, smiling, “Yup. When am I not?” He shrugs, before leaning against the locker beside mine. Fiddling with his eyepatch, he mutters a little, “Well, y'know, Luke's planning on coming tonight, so.” Oh. I hadn't been aware of that. Apparently the look on my face says it all. Ethan gives me a pat on the shoulder, “So...come find me if plans change.” I nod.

Watching Ethan walk away is one thing, but watching Luke merge from the mess of students is another. I roll my eyes, and start in a different direction. “Perce, come on. Talk to me.” I ignore him, hoping to gods that the bell will ring. It doesn't.

Luke snatches my wrist, pulling me into an empty classroom, “Annie wants to talk to you.” I shrug, “That's cool. I don't want to talk to her.” Luke, he has the audacity to look pained, “It would mean a lot to her if she could explain.” Shaking my head, I shove him off of me, “No. Both of you went behind my back – have been behind my back for god-knows how long. I don't need to hear anything. You've made it pretty clear.” Girlfriend cheating on me with my best friend. Wonderful.

He glowers down at me, blue eyes narrowed menacingly in a way that I've been immune to since I met him, “Percy -”

“No. Leave me alone, Luke. I've got class.” And for once, my luck shines through. The bell shrieks, and I'm out of his company faster than the roadrunner. Screw Luke – screw him and his stupid face; his lying, cheating face.

No, I don't slam the door as I step into class. Hell, I don't even know what class I'm in right now. I stare at the whiteboard – yes, a whiteboard, because apparently our school is too good to use chalkboards anymore. Mrs Dodds' beady eyes survey the class as we all get settled. Then she clears her throat, “Homework out on desks, then start on the worksheet I'm handing out.” Gods, her voice is annoying. Grating, like she smokes entire packs of cigarettes a day, but shrill as if she's trying to appear proper. Gross.

I stare down at my empty desk. No homework from me.

Her heels clack heavily on the floor as she circuits the room, gathering papers and handing others out. It's always the same worksheets; to me, anyway. Jumbling letters that squirm around, symbols and numbers that I never really did make sense of.

The kid next to me looks a little sympathetic when he notices me not dragging anything out of my bag. I just relax into my chair, and wait for the sweet release of death. Which wont happen anytime soon. Damn. Then, steps come to a halt at my desk. I look up, find those ugly eyes leering back down at me, “Fifth time this semester, Jackson.” I shrug, “What of it?” Dodds sneers, “That's detention, and a call home.” I shrug again, “Cool.” My mom didn't register her number into the school's system.

She flounders, in a way I could call comical, but it's really more of a scarring amalgamation of her wrinkled and taught features converging and convulsing on her face as she splutters for words.

“I kindly suggest that maybe you should find an expression and settle on it. Make sure it's flattering; I've heard that the wind changes.” The teacher finally settles on enraged. Not entirely flattering; far from it and far from anything within the range of anything this society deems 'attractive', but perhaps that's the point. “Get out.” She hisses, “Get out of my classroom, I will _not_ tolerate this sort of behavior.” There's giggling and unsure murmurs spreading through the class like wildfire that I've never experienced. I wonder what it'd be like, to endure the heat and the crackling of distant flame.

Well, I'll find out soon, I guess.

I grab my bag and stroll out of the classroom, head held as high as it can with a sense of ugly pride on my shoulders. It's funny that Mrs Dodds thinks she's won something by telling me to leave. I make my way through empty halls – it's not even half-way through first period yet, but Mrs Dodds has always been a tempered woman. Mom's gonna be so mad if she catches wind of this.

But, technically, I didn't... _promise_ to stay out of trouble. I just sort of nodded.

Yeah, she's not gonna like me trying to smart-ass my way out of the situation. Humming, I look around. I'm never really sure what teachers expect when they tell you to leave. Are you just meant to stand outside until they let you back in? That's boring.

I make a stop at the guys' bathroom, looking around until – ah, there he is. “Hi Grover.” He grins up at me, waving smoke away, “Oh hey man. Wha'sup?” I shrug, reaching to open the bathroom window, “Not much. Got kicked out of class.” He snickers loudly, “Oh yeah? Mrs Dodds, man, she is a _dime._ ” I don't really get what he means by that, but okay. “How's Juniper?” He shrugs, playing with some empty can, “She's...good, man, like...yeah. Junebug's doin' well.” I nod, even though I know for a fact that it's a lie.

Juniper's stressing herself trying to keep Grover in her parents' good graces, and to try and get him off this stuff, “Hey Grove?” He looks down, smiling, “Hey Percy.” I lean against the sink unit, “You ever think about giving that up?” We both look down at his joint, before he sighs – he's still smiling, the useless meathead, “Nope.” How considerate.

“You sure? Because Juniper sure works hard to make sure you're okay, you know.” Grover chuckles, a half-bleating sort of sound, and takes another hit. He doesn't answer my question.

I sigh, and turn to look at the mirror. It's stained with...questionable substances; dried up condensation and soapsuds, mostly, but...well, you never know when it comes to the boys at this school. However, I grab a whiteboard marker from my bag (yes, I keep them handy. Yes, they're washable, don't worry.) Leaning forward, I start doodling.

Now, I'm not the best of artists; I am aware. But fish are cool. Fish are easy to draw, and people like fish. I like fish, anyways. So I draw some Nemos and Dories, maybe a few marlins too. Grover chuckles from somewhere behind me, but I ignore him for the most part.

I haven't told him I'll be leaving soon. I haven't told anybody. I'm not sure if I should.

“You ever think that maybe we'll just...disappear, one day?” Oh god, thanks Grover. I roll my eyes, shaking my head, “People don't just disappear, Grove. It's not normal.” He hums, before humming again, “My uncle disappeared.” I nod, “I know.” Grover opens the window wider, “My dad disappeared, too.” I nod again, “I know, Grover.”

“I'm sad.”

“I know.”

“Are you sad, Percy?”

Now _that_ is a question. I shrug, “Depends.” Grover blinks at me in the mirror, “Oh yeah? On what?” This time, I don't answer. I just pocket my marker and shift uneasily on the spot. “I gotta go,” I tell him, before turning on my heel and walking out of the bathroom. Do I feel bad? Of course; he's...he's my...'best friend', after all. And I just left him. Oh well.

The bell rings for second period, and I lose myself in the crowd.

* * *

Luke and Annabeth tried to corner me in the lunch hall, but I weaseled my way out and into an empty classroom. Ethan said something about Luke being at the swim-meet tonight. I don't know if I should go or not. I mean, it shouldn't fall on whether Luke is there or not, right? It'll be my last time seeing my team, holding the title of Swim Captain. But then there's Luke.

He'll try to talk to me, no doubt.

Repeatedly pester me until I give in.

Try to make up excuses.

Probably end up lying, because it's Luke.

Pros? I come up short, staring down at my sandwich. It doesn't taste all that good, or maybe it's me, but I let it drop back into its wrapper before throwing it in the wastebasket. This isn't fun, so far. My last week, and it's as if the end of the world is about to happen. Joy.

Brushing my hands on my jeans, I duck out of the room and book it for the main entrance. Maybe I can hide out in the bleachers around the soccer pitch. Sure, all the preppy people are there, but it's better than being stalked by blondes with pale eyes. Then again, that's where Annabeth most likely is; head of organization and all. All events under her supervision to be ready for...whatever it is. I don't really know, but oh well. It's not like we're really on talking terms.

Not on my part, anyways.

I tug my jacket around me, chilled upon stepping outside. I'm not really sure what I'm doing. I walk around the school campus, weaving through groups of people when I catch sight of anyone that might want to talk to me. I know it's stupid, and a little weird, that I'm avoiding everybody but I'm just not feeling it. Tired, sad, trying to detach, I guess. So it wont hurt as much when I leave.

Hell, I still need to pack up my stuff. Not... _everything_ , of course, because I doubt that all of it will be able to make its way across the country. Maybe mom will be nice enough to mail some of my stuff. Oh well. Frowning, my steps slow as I reach the fencing around the school. Sitting down, I pick at the loose seams in my jeans. I wonder if I'll like it with my dad. I've never actually met him in person; just talked to him on the phone. Well, that's sort of a lie. I've seen him sometimes when I get dragged along to the social-worker meetings. Mom's never actually let me talk to him, though.

Makes me wonder if the reason he left is because mom was too overbearing.

Then I shake off the thought and stare at the weak sprouts of grass. Mom...she means well, she's just a little...overprotective. That's not the word, but I can't think of anything else to explain it. Sighing, I listen to the bell shriek form the school building, and make my way to class.

* * *

Silena hums, twirling long hair around her finger, smiling kindly at me, “You'll be fine, Percy.” I groan, burying my face in my arms, “How can you be so sure?” She reaches across and squeezes my shoulder, “Because this is _you_ we're talking about. Just because Luke's going to be at the swim-meet, it shouldn't stop you from going...” She trails off, leading me to look up, “But?”

She hums, blue eyes still so bright, even in the bleak sunshine outside, “And it'll be your last week here. Why miss out?” Silena's the only person I've told that I'm leaving. She's trusting that way.

Sighing, I wipe my hand down my face, “...I know, but -”

Silena raises an eyebrow, “But what? Your team deserves to see you before you go. Percy, it's your decision in the end. I,” She hums, shrugging, “Yeah, I can see why you're hesitant. But what's Luke going to do?” My hand gets tangled in my hair, but don't reply. She grabs my hand, grinning, “Besides, it'll be fun. Leave them with a good memory.” She's right. I smile, nodding, “I – yeah, yeah.”

“And we'll all go out for Wendy's after.” I look up to see Ethan dragging his chair over, smirking. He tugs his eyepatch down instinctively, “It'll be fun, man, come on.” I choke a little, “You know?” Ethan sits down backwards, “I know now. Don't worry, secret's safe with me.” He mimes zipping his lips shut. I sigh heavily, “No...it's not the team I'm worried about finding out.”

Both my friends stare at me for a moment. “Luke and Annabeth.” They go _ohhh_ and nod, “Makes sense,” Ethan mutters. Then he grins sharply at me, chuckling, “Luke's a complete douche.”

Nodding, I furrow my eyebrows, “Are – are non-team members actually allowed in after school hours?” Silena nods, agitated, “Unfortunately. Mostly because of after-school detentions, or other after-school activities that the teachers really don't care if you're part of a club or not, since there's so many.” Ethan rubs his eye, frowning, “It's stupid. This place really should get a better lock-down on security.”

We stare out the window for a while. Then Ethan asks, “Where are you going, anyway?” I shrug, “California. Dad wants full-custody over me.” Silena cocks her head, “Why?” I sigh heavily, slumping in my chair, “Turns out he was meant to have part-custody; I'd visit him over the summer, but mom hadn't been keeping up her end of the deal.”

One of them lets out a low whistle, “All behind your back?” I nod. “You've never met your dad?” I shake my head, “Never. Didn't – I didn't even know he was still around. Never heard about him.” Silena rests a soothing hand on my shoulder, “I'm sorry, Perce.” I shrug, “It's fine, I guess.”

Not really. In a week, I'll be living with a man I've never even heard of and two other brothers.

_I have siblings._

**Plural.**

(I'm scared, honestly.) Ethan hisses a little, “Aww man, you know it's not fine when you say it is.” I laugh, “Hey – why's that?” Silena pitches her voice a little higher in attempts of an Annabeth impersonation, “ _Hey Percy, do you need help?_ ” Ethan lowers his voice to be slower, sluggish in a poor impression of myself, “ _No it's fine,_ he says as water starts coming from under the boys' bathroom door.”

“ _Hey Percy, are you okay?_ ” Ethan squeaks.

“ _Yeah, I'm fine_ , he says as the school's fish mysteriously get flushed down the toilets,” She giggles.

I huff, “Hey, everybody knows that the sewers lead back to the ocean.” She shakes her head, sighing, “You have got to admit that it was a stupid idea.” I pout, “You guys are mean, I don't like you anymore.” Ethan shakes his head, “Says the socialite.” Kicking him, I lean back in my chair, “Shut up, Nakamura.” He just rolls his eyes, “Sure thing, Jackson.”

After another while of just being bored, the teacher steps in just as the intercom system crackles to life. “ _Percy Jackson,_ ” At least they didn't use my full name this time. I kicked up a huge racket over that. “ _Please come to the front office._ ” Oh gods. What did I do now? (Aside from skip first period.) Ethan snickers, a few classmates _oooh_ 'ing as I stand.

I grab my bag, waving to my friends before stepping out of the classroom. Deja vu.

The halls are as quiet as they had been this morning, my sneakers slapping on the linoleum floors. I hum to myself, but the lights flicker and my singing doesn't make it any less creepy.

Upon arriving at the front office, the receptionist smiles at me, “Heya Percy.” She sounds like a stereotypical mom from Michigan. Her hair's pinched back in a bun, I notice, “Hi. What am I here for?” She smiles, pityingly, “You have an appointment with your social worker.” Oh great. I sigh, and look around. He's over by the main entrance. Carter Kane, or something. Mr Kane. Ugh.

“Hi Percy, sorry to take you out of class -”

“You're doing me a favor.” He's genuinely a nice guy, but so far it's just been me and him sitting in a room and me blanking his questions. I don't really understand his role, but he asks a lot about how I'm doing, how I feel, if there's anything I would like to say about the situation. I ignore most of the questions, answering with a simple, “It's fine.” I guess I do say that a lot. Huh.

He leads me out of the building, and over to a bench, “Thought we could enjoy the sunshine.” What little of it there is. I nod, and slump down onto the seat, “Okay.” Carter places his clipboard on his lap, and looks at me with a smile, “So, Percy, how have you been?” I shrug, “Fine.” (Again.)

Carter purses his lips, cocking his head, “Do you have anything you want to talk about? Like how you'll be moving all the way across the country – how does that make you feel?” Once again, surprising nobody, I shrug, “It's fine.” I feel like shit; I wont see my mom again, I'll be moving to someplace I've never been with some man I've never met. Though, some part of me is...excited. Maybe he wont be mom's level of intensely smothering.

He scribbles something down on his clipboard with a hum, “Are you sure? It's okay to feel a little... _sad_ about the situation, maybe a little overwhelmed.” I ignore him, closing my eyes and feeling the breeze hit us. It's harsh and unloving, bitter with the foreshadow of rainfall.

There's a sigh, before the sound of his clipboard being put down all together, “Percy, my job is to make this transition as painless as possible. It'll be better if you talk.” Shrugging again, I open my eyes and glance at him from my peripherals, “It's fine. I'm okay with the situation. Seriously.” ( _Freedom,_ something honey-rich and enticing whispers into my ear, _freedom._ It makes my stomach flip, heart stutter in place as the idea is briefly mulled over.)

Carter gives me a dubious look, “Do you know how many teenagers that are like you are out there?” I don't understand what he means. “A lot of them, I'll tell you that much. And a lot of the time, these sort of big changes make somebody feel small, and it's understandable. I'm just here to help.” He says this every time.

It's so terribly scripted. Disgusting, hollow, practiced and fails to reassure me like it is intended. I bet that every kid in this situation feels the same, their lives being torn apart and being told that eating their heart out is the solution.

“I get that,” I tell him, voice harsher than I intended, “But there's nothing to help with. I'm fine.” He sighs quietly, “You've been saying that a lot lately.” The sympathy on his face is sickening, how it's etched into the lines on his face and the brightness of his eyes. I want to vomit.

Nodding, I mutter, “That's because I am.”

“That's hard to believe.”

“Who ever said I cared about you believing?”

“Percy -”

“Just shut up, Kane.”

He does, thankfully. I spend the rest of our twenty minutes sitting in silence and enjoying my lack of class to pay attention to. It's more eventful than it sounds.

* * *

My mom's beyond impressed when I get home, “I heard from Mr Kane that you were... _abrasive_ during your session today.” She narrows her eyes at me, mouth in a grim line. I shuffle into the kitchen, dropping my bag on the floor, “When am I not?” Mom sighs, shaking her head disapprovingly. Against my will, I feel a little guilty. Only a little.

Mom hums a little, bland, “What about swim-practice? How did that go?” I shrug, running a hand through damp, chlorine-soaked hair, “It went fine.” _Terribly._ Luke had been there, as promised. I left early and loitered at Central Park until it was time to head home. Ha – _home._ Not for much longer.

“Did you say goodbye to everybody?” Rolling my eyes, I nod, “Yup.” She doesn't look back to check if I lied. I wring my hands out briefly, feeling itches crawl up my arms at the fact that I did, in fact, lie. “I've...got homework. Love you.” I stand, grab my bag, and abscond to my bedroom. I groan into my arms as I slump onto my bed, misery feeling like a heavy weight in my stomach. Gods, _I'm a terrible person._ Who lies to their mom? Who runs away from somebody who used to be your friend? _Jesus Christ._

I sit up, looking out my window. Gray-blue, skyscrapers, busy traffic, busier people. A trampling stampede of black ties, black umbrellas, black suits and pinstripe whatever else. A heavy sigh comes from somewhere – maybe me, maybe mom in the other room – and I flop back on my bed. The light is dim, filling my blue room with a chalk-paleness that turns blue into mute gray. I hate it. Who knows, maybe in California, the sun's a little brighter and the people are less monochrome.

In California, they might speak differently – well, they _will_ , because New Yorkers sound like they've got a speech impediment when it comes to pronouncing anything with an 'r' in it. Maybe Californians are as laid back as the stereotypes say, traffic only a different breed of chaos than the sluggish stream of vehicles that flood the roads here. Suns, beaches, palm trees – tans, bottle-blondes, excessive skin exposure and the perfect weather all year round. The idea makes me smile, if only a little, as I look back out the window.

Taking a step back, I look around my room. The sun's shining a little bit brighter, and my walls look blue. Pictures gleam from glossy frames; a little boy without a scuff on him and a mother that looks like she couldn't be happier with her perfect child. Something stirs unpleasantly in my gut.

Perfect little boy.

Yup; that's me... (Not it's not, but we knew that already.)

I grown into my hand, rubbing my eye, “Great.” The day's events take their toll, and I curl up on my bed and feel the springs dig into my back. It's not great, but it's what I've grown up with, in this tiny, compact apartment. All I've ever known, this place, these gray skies, these dreary people. Kind of sad, really. That will change soon.

It's that thought that lulls me into a doze.

* * *

**//Swim Practice**

Okay so maybe coming here was a bad idea. Don't get me wrong – it's great. All my friends and teammates are here, Silena's here, along with a couple other friends of the guys', because school's security sucks and anybody can come in if they really want to. They populate the benches a little further away from the pool; nobody's really taking practice seriously, but it's not like it's the first thing on my mind either. I let it slide for today. Why ruin my last time seeing everybody so relaxed and happy?

The water's lukewarm, as chlorine water tends to be, especially indoors. I float near the edge of the pool, watching the light reflect off the surface and ripple patterns onto skin. It's pretty. Despite all the chatter around me, I feel calm. Water's always had this affect. I wonder if my school in California will have a swim-team.

I cup water in my hands, watch is seep through my fingers and back into the pool. I smile when somebody familiar sidles up to me, “Hey Jackson.” I grin, “Hey Nakamura.” He sinks until he can rest his head on the edge of the pool, “Enjoying yourself, cap'n?” I snort, shoving him, “Aye, laddie. 'Tis a joyous occasion.” I've always had fun impersonating pirates. Ethan snorks water through his nose and chokes, groaning afterward, “Ouch.”

Holding back laughter, I pat his back, “You okay?” Ethan nods, sighing, “Hurts though.” I roll my eyes, “Duh. Water isn't meant to be inhaled.” He huffs, shoving me away lightly, “You think I don't know that?” I shrug coyly, “Didn't look like you did.”

Ethan glowers (read: pouts) at me for a moment, before splashing me, “You're one mean cookie, Perce.” I grin at him, splashing him back, “Right back at you, Ethan.”

There's a familiar husk of laughter, before Beckendorf swims over with Silena settling herself down on the edge of the pool, “Hey, hey, hey.” I run a damp hand through me even damper hair, smile up at them – ignoring the distraught constriction of my chest at the thought that I wont see these people after Friday. “Hey guys,” It's the greeting I've used for all my life, the same _hey (name)_ and that same stupid, too toothy smile on my face. ~~It never occurred to me I'd favor something else~~.

You know, maybe this evening will go well after all.

But, well, luck isn't my most reliable of friends.

Silena curls hair around her finger, wriggling her toes in the water. Her legs are sprawled over Beckendorf's shoulders, from where he laughs quietly and whispers to her in hushed tones. They're utterly giggly and romantic in that pretty, televised way that everybody wishes they could have. I'm happy for them, honest. It's good to see them so cute; a refreshing look on what a relationship _should_ look like – examples of what me and Annabeth were doing wrong.

Then there's Ethan. He's just watching the water's reflection on the ceiling, like I'd been doing earlier, grinning like he's on top of the world. Or high. Maybe both. I hear chlorine affects some people. It's funny watching his eye flit from one ripply to another, thrashing his legs under the water to watch the shadows mesh on the ceiling.

“You okay there, Ethan?” He thumps my shoulder lightly, snorking in a form of laughter, “Definitely. Just an easy way to close Monday, don't think?” Nodding, I sink lower, holding my breath as I feel the water lap just below my eyes, over my nose. Then suddenly Silena's shoving me under, shock forcing the air from my lungs.

I force back up, gasping in a comical way as I blink water from my eyes, “ _Silena!_ ” She cackles like the truly evil person she is, but bats her eyelashes at me charmingly, “Oh, but Percy...you can't stay mad at little old _me._ ” I scoff, but share a meaningful look with Beckendorf. “Got you hands full, huh Charlie?” He grins at me, nodding, “Don't you know it.”

I grab Ethan and throw him into the water. He splutters, flailing like a cat to water, and comes back up with his back arching and head craned back as if he was the Little Mermaid herself. “ _Jesus_ what did _I_ do?” I grin, but remain silent.

His cunning eye turns to me, smirking, “Race me.” I snort, rolling my eyes, “Like you'd beat me.” Silena shoves me lightly, “C'mon, Percy. Make do with your last swim-meet.” I shuffle to a stand in the water, hooking my leg over the edge and standing up. I help Ethan out, rolling my eyes once more, “This is only because I'm team captain, okay, and I have to cement my record before I leave.” My friends ( _haha suck it,_ ) all laugh as me and Ethan step up to the little stands at the end of the pool.

 _Oooh's_ start reigning around the hall as I count down, “Three, two, one -” Dive, submersion, thrill. My heart beats fast as I tread water, eyes forced open as I grin to Ethan a little behind me. The water feels awesome. I haven't raced since last semester, because there haven't been any major competitions, but right now? I'm feeling pretty good.

I curl my knees to my chest as I get ready to turn at the end of the pool, forcing myself away from the wall and rocketing in the other direction. It's fun, I love doing that, love turning the lap, watching Ethan's tight-lipped grin as he follows me just after. My legs kick furiously, I think, because I feel really stupid with my I'm frying to breaststroke. It's never been my strongest form, but apparently it's doing the job.

It's a narrow win.

Everbody laughs and whistles anyways, because...well. I'm Percy Jackson. Not to sound big-headed or anything, but all I seem to represent in school is _oh yeah, that Swim Boi_. So. Eh.

Ethan playfully shoves me, “ _Almost._ ” I grin, panting a little for air, “But not quite.” I move to high-five him, the slap of a wet palm on the other cutting through the chatter of my team and co. Looking around, I feel warm. Happy, I guess, to be surrounded by people who support me, and I support back –

“Percy!” _Damn._ I sigh heavily, looking over to the backstabbing douche striding towards me with intent. I shoot apologetic looks to my friends, who give me similar looks in turn, before I get out of the pool and walk towards him. Everything falls silent. I hate it.

I catch Luke by his by his arm, whirl on my heel and drag us to the locker rooms, “What.” It's not a question. It's not exactly inviting an answer, either. He drags a hand down his face, fingers brushing delicately over the scare marring his skin, “Just let me talk?” What else do I have to do? I gesture, impatient, “Hurry up.”

“It was only a one-time thing, Perce, just -”

“Wow, so that's how you're gonna start it.”

“Will you just let me work through it?”

I fall quiet, rolling my eyes. I feel like Luke's the one that cheated, and I'm the heartbroken girlfriend in this mess, honestly. Don't know what that says about me, but...well, it doesn't look good. It's just – he is, no, _was_ my best friend! Partners in crime, brothers from different mothers and all that crap. Having him go behind my back with _my_ girlfriend is. Well. It hurts.

But I know that Luke is only half of the problem. Let's hope when I leave, they can have their _happy ever after._

“It just happened.” It's weak, we both know it is; you can see it in the smile-going-on-grimace that bares his teeth in an ugly way. I throw an unimpressed look at him, moving to sit down on a bench, “Oh yeah? Do go on, I'd _really_ like to know how it just... _happened_.” He shoots me his own sharp look, about to retort with something mean. I cut him off.

“Luke, it's _you_ and Annabeth that went behind my back. I'm allowed to be short with you.” Luke's shut down immediately. He rakes another hand down his face, “I – we were studying, okay? Then her dad left for a while for a last-minute meeting, and then...” His face turned pink, “She kissed me.” Oh. Annabeth initiated it. Great. Doesn't make me feel inadequate or anything.

He sees the dismay on my face, apparently, because his stupid pretty-boy blue eyes turn sad and he reaches out to rest a hand on my shoulder. I would have let him, if the circumstance was different, “And you...” I raise an eyebrow, waiting for him to fill in. “I – I let...it happen.”

I wipe water from my face, huffing, “Gee, thanks Luke. What a great friend you were.” He has the gall to look shocked, confused – a little puppy, “ _...were?_ ” I nod, scoffing as I stand and move to my locker, “You really think I'd still think of you as my friend after that? My _best friend_ , for that matter?” Luke sighs heavily, “Percy -” I wave him off, gathering my towel from the locker and starting to dry myself off, “No, seriously. My closest, kind of _only_ friend in our group,” Because let's be honest, our group of friends consists of a bitch, a stoner, a perfect boy complex (me,) and then...Luke. The actual Perfect Boy. _The_ Golden Boy.

Of course, there's my swim team, and people like Ethan, like Silena, like Beckendorf. But Annabeth, Grover and Luke are the main people I am associated with around the school. And if I'm not bonding great with the first two, I'm idolizing Luke. As the Golden Boy. What I want to be. (What my mom wants me to be.)

I still feel betrayal, even if I wasn't feeling as romantically toward my girlfriend as she had apparently felt towards me, but she was my second closest friend (I suck at lying.)

“And you had the nerve to go and cheat with my girlfriend.” Luke finally starts fuming as I drop my towel, tugging a shirt over my head, “Percy you _know_ I had a thing for Annabeth.” I throw my hands in the air, “That suddenly gives you permission to _fuck my girlfriend?_ ” Because that's what happened, let's not sugarcoat it or try to dance around it.

The red on his face blanks out pale like he's seen a ghost. “Yeah,” I nod, sneering, “It's not just cutesy low-key kissing and stuff in the bathroom, Luke, _I know_.” Word spreads fast when Michael Kahale is involved.

“How did you find out -”

“Why does that matter?”

“Because I need to know who else found out -”

“Good luck then, because if I was the last to find out, then odds aren't in your favor.”

He angrily slams a fist into one of the lockers. “How flattering Luke, really, your anger management is through the roof.” The blond turns to me, seething, “I don't regret it. She deserves better than _you_.” Ouch. “So you replaced something decent with something from Good Will?” His mouth works funnily, strangely like he's forming too many words at once and can't decide on what to produce.

Staring up at him, it makes me wonder why I ever held him in higher lights. He's a jerk. Entitled, bratty, spoiled jerk with a bad attitude and a lack of compassion. It makes my throat constrict. “Yeah, I'm pretty speechless too.” I grin, incredulous, I feel unhinged as I grip my hair, “Speechless when she told me she liked me, Luke, and speechless when she kissed me for the first time – do you know how that _felt?_ ” Scoffing, I brush it off, “Well, of course you do, I guess, but oh well.”

He knows how sensitive I can be. Mommy Issue boy, right here, projecting her expectations. Luke had been the first person I confided in, and he used to hug me about it and tell me I was _enough._ Apparently not anymore.

“For me, it made my entire world, okay? It was great. Annabeth was my girlfriend who's _obviously_ out of my league, Luke, but she chose me and she said she liked me.” I feel frustrated, red blooming in my face – anger or the remains of a crush, I don't know which. I work through it, heaving a sigh, “So, it's great. It's wonderful, it's just...everything a bratty little boy could want.”

Glaring at him, there's satisfaction in watching a weakness settle over his features, awed and sickeningly vile, “I guess you know how that feels, too.”

“But thanks,” I hiss, “Thanks _so much._ Ruining all of that, just letting it all get messed up and gross because you let your feelings override whatever the hell it is that had compromised my little snatch of happiness.” It's betrayal. Raw, dirt betrayal, because I may not like Annabeth in that way, but she made me laugh and smile and all that pretty stuff that Silena and Beckendorf do. I just wanted an illusion of that. That I was a regular, All-American teen that could get that.

Fates are twisted and cruel.

Huffing, trying to breathe through a tear-taught throat, I shake my head. He watches me crumble.

I grab my jacket, dumping my shoes to the floor and angrily toeing them onto my feet, “You're a jerk, Luke. It's nice to know you care more about your reputation in the school than the fact that you _hurt me._ ” Because he did, and I'm a sissy little boy, crying over something I didn't really care about in the first place. He looks even more startled when I sniffle. Damn, I've always been an angry-crier.

Shoving past him with my jeans still in my bag, I storm out of the locker rooms. In doing this, I have to cut through the main area where everybody is to the entrance. Silena, her boyfriend, and Ethan all call out to me. They're smiling, happy and there's tension, but it's lax and not really registering the fact that my eyes aren't red from the chlorine.

Silena seems to be the first to notice, hopping up, “Percy? Percy, come here, please.” I shake my head. I hate myself for how my voice cracks, “I'll see you guys tomorr-ow.” And then I'm gone.

Don't really know where I'm going, I feel horrible, it's raining. Just like it always is in New York. It'd be nice if we got drought for once. Not happening.

I still have a couple hours 'til I'm due to head home. With that thought in mind, I walk past the Wendy's on the street corner me and the team were meant to hang out around after practice. I curse everything quietly, pretending it's rain on my face. What a wonderful end to the _first_ day of the week. Just great, really. I've embarrassed myself in front of the entire swim team, admitted to the douche who hurt me that he did, in fact, hurt me. **Badly.**

My ego aches, my head spins, and I fall onto the steps of the gazebo in Central Park. None of it is pretty, it's not glamorous or as romantic as the Times say. No charm, no endearment. It's cold, solid, wet and miserable.

Hollow, I believe is the word. Vacant, forcefully repressed emotions bottled away for safe keeping. Even as tears (yes, I will admit that I'm crying,) start cascading down my face, it doesn't feel real. Detached, like an actor in a movie. They're not real, not really, just a natural reaction to emotional exhaustion. My heart does this weird, convulsion thing in my ribcage, a pitiful pulse in my chest that doesn't feel as solid as it should.

Not the best way for this day to come to a close, but maybe it's better this way. I've made it clear to Luke that 1) he and Annabeth _both_ have made me feel like shit, 2) I don't want to interact with either of them from this moment onwards, and 3) he's a jerk.

He made _me_ cry.

Smiley, perky, happy-go-lucky Percy Jackson. Captain of the swim team, one of the most popular boys in school, known for charm, charisma, humor and whatever else is positive. And people witness me crying, after an interaction with Luke.

Let's see his reputation recover from a blow like that.

One week, and it'll be over. I can't wait.

Sobs rack my frame as I pull my knees to my chest, rain soaking what I had dried off in the locker rooms. At least I'm still wearing my swim trunks. That doesn't make me feel any better.

The sky's downcast, dark, brewing a storm that is likely to continue for a couple more hours. I remain rooted to my perch, watching with clumped eyelashes as the familiar scene I have grown up with just reflects my mood. Yellow taxis can be seen through trees and plants, the rain hammering hard on traffic and car horns echoing like a cacophony of pained wails.

As I stand, the cold air hits me, but I just wipe my face and pull my hood up, shuffling along the paths cut through the grass. When I make it out on to the streets, it's hard to determine what time it is, but I guess it must be time to return home.

I wonder what mom would think if she found out what happened, what has been happening for months. It's amusing to think of how she'd be flabbergasted in that humorous way they show on the television, hand flapping around in panic, but I know that's not how she'd react. She'd be stern and silent, fuming and asking why I never told her.

Why I never told her that Grover smokes pot, that he drains his girlfriend's energy and pride and will to continue living whilst he bums around on her parents' couch. Why I never told her that Annabeth's a patronizing, big-headed and acute, finds satisfaction in putting me down and tugging me around like a dog on a leash, like a prize to be paraded. Why I never told her that Luke's a condescending jerk, a mean guy who twists your arm until it dislocates at the socket and then proceeds to tear it from your shoulder.

Why I put up with it, why I endured and moved on from each chip to my ego. Why I never confided in her, like the perfect mother she wants to be, like the woman they play on the television, with all the good advice and perfect balance of sternness and support that every child wants.

In the end, it all chalks up to me not being the perfect, plastic, televised son she wants so badly. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Ugh, 2018 at last. Survive one year, endure the next, motherfuckers :|
> 
> Okay, so I wanted to do the scene back at the swim meet _after_ he got back home to show that Percy brushed off a lot of what actually went down, when he was moping around in his room after his brief 'conversation' with Sally. So that his brooding and sadness had more of source behind it whilst having some sort of mystery as to why he was acting that way after what was apparently a brief run-in with Luke and a cut-short swim practice.


	3. Talk About It?

_"When they ask about my father, I say_  
_he's in a desert; a mirage I can't get to,  
_ _no matter how far I drive."_

*

**CHAPTER THREE**

It's overwhelming to think that one person can change everything. Whether that someone is here for better, or for worse. Change itself is something to get used to; it's worse when it's a face – old or new – you must come to terms with.

Just a smile (laced with hostility or hospitality,) just a blink of eyes (caramel dark or ocean bright,) has my world crumbling to the ground, has the stars collapsing from the sky, has the ocean crashing against the shore.

Pathetic, really. How easily I am affected by the appearance of a face. New or old, it's a change, and I've never been versatile. Vitriolic, virulent, vulgar – all are valid, all adjectives that fit me like a glove. (Vulnerable, let's not forget that one.) But versatile is definitely not suiting.

But then again, anger has always been better than anything else. Somebody dies? I'm angry. Somebody leaves? I'm angry. They come back? Well, you get the point. I never will understand all those prettier words: acceptance, acquiesce, amiability (and admiration.)

So maybe I'll remain vicious and leave it at that.

* * *

It's rare finding a day that my father isn't at the table in the kitchen or tucked away in his bedroom/study. Not a day that he doesn't rest, doesn't take a break, doesn't _stop._ Thick binders, loose papers filled from top to bottom in left-slanted writing that's messy and eligible only to him. I blame him for my shitty handwriting; if handwriting is inheritable.

But today is apparently one of those days that he emerges from his respite and wine cabinets. And of course, it's to pay attention to his whore. Sorry, I meant girlfriend. I find this out on Wednesday morning, shuffling down the stairs with heavy steps.

Not due to guilt; I got Hazel's money back into her little penny bank before she got back on Monday. That's my good deed for the week. (It was more than what I took. If she noticed, she didn't say anything.)

I run a hand through my hair, yawn muffled by my hand as I drop my bag by the couch. Little Hazel watches yet _another_ episode of Modern Family; she seems hooked – I regret letting Kayla introduce her to that. Slumping next to her on the couch, I ruffle her her, “Sup sorellina.” She grins, curling up next to me, “Hey fratello.” (Still with that 'frateyo' sound, but I don't bother correcting her. I think it may be influence from Leo.)

Stretching my legs, I drop my feet onto the coffee table with a thump. “Feet off the table, Nico.” Fuck. I glance over to the kitchen, where Persephone sits grossly close to Hades. I glare at her for a second, but my feet remain on the table.

She scowls at me, curling her ombre hair around her finger (y'know, like when it's dark on top and light on bottom. I don't actually fucking know.) Her red lipstick smudges a little as her mouth twists up. Persephone turns to Hades, who's hand is twitching wildly with each word he jotts down, “He's getting the table dirty, honey.” He glances up at me, meets my cool gaze with his own. Then, to my surprise, he shrugs, “He's never tracked mud into the house before, darling. I doubt this time is any different.”

That's a lie and we both know it, but I don't object.

He's covering for me and it's...surprising. Startling, stifling, shocking. In more pleasant terms; surprising. Persephone says something else, but my eyes are still glued to Hades. His mouth does...something, this sort of near-smile thing, before he returns to his work.

I glance at Hazel, but she seems as wide-eyed and shaken as me. Clearing my throat, I shift around, “You ready for school?” She shrugs, playing with her shirt; fruit. It seems to be a theme, lately. This time it's lemon slices on a blue background with pink shorts. I chuckle, “Homework?” Hazel nod, “Check.”

“Lunch money?”

“Check.”

“Gym kit?”

“Check.”

“Boyfriend?”

“Che -”

I gasp, eyes comically wide, “Hazel! You're too young for boyfriends!” Little Hazel shrieks loudly, grappling at me as I jump up and jog around. “You made me say it!” She protests, trying to snatch at my jacket. I cackle loudly, “Hazel's got a boyfriend, Hazel's got a boyfriend!”

“Stop running around, you'll break something. _And_ you're getting mud on the floor!” Persephone orders, standing from the kitchen table. Hades gently sits her back down, “They're playing; let them be.” My stomach twists oddly once again, but I brush it off in favor of Hazel knocking me to the ground. She punches me as hard as she can (not that hard,) giggling and messily blabbering about how, “Frank's not my boyfriend! He's not!”

“I didn't even mention Frank!”

“No but it was implicated!”

I grab her tiny fists, squinting, “Implied, sorellina. Implicated is a criminal thing.” She huffs at me, rolling pretty golden eyes, “Whatever, know-it-all.” Smiling, I push her off, “Well, whatever. C'mon, you'll be late if we don't leave.”

She shakes her head, “Uh, I'm getting the bus today.” I blink down at her, “Oh...what's the occasion?” Hazel shrugs, “Sammy's taking the bus today.” Slowly, I purse my lips, “He's the new kid, right?” She nods. I hum, “Okay.” That means I don't leave 'til later; who the fuck cares if I'm late?

With her, I sit back on the couch. Upside down this time, legs in the air. “Wont you be late, Nico?” Peresphone sounds cold. I shrug, “It's fine. I have choir class first anyways.” Hades hums, “I don't even know why you went for that class.” Once again, I shrug, “Free period.” My dad snorts at that, but it's not derisive as usual, “Of course.” This is the most amicable I've been with him in years. It's fucking terrifying.

Hazel plays with my hair, smoothing her soft fingers over my eyebrows and over my eyelids. She hums quietly, “You're like Snow White.” I scoff, “Oh yeah?” She nods, reciting, “Hair as black as ebony, lips and cheeks as red as the rose, skin as white as snow.” A polar opposite to her.

I roll my eyes, “If that description was literal, she'd be a walking nightmare.” Hazel giggles, carding fingers through my hair again, “Sounds like a vampire.” Nodding, I squeeze her hand, “Would make sense. She charms the fuck out of a hunter-guy to let her go, and then for some fucking reason seven dudes just let her _move in_.”

The whore hisses, “Are you seriously just going to let him cuss? In front of Hazel?” I turn to watch as Hades turns to look at her, eyebrow arched. “You seem to have no issue swearing at him when I'm not around.” Oh _shit_ the look on her face, man, like _holy fuck._

Laughter bubbles out of me; a loud, incredulous sort of shrill sound that makes me slip off the couch. Hades glances over to me, but he isn't smiling. He isn't scowling, either, so. Fucking whatever.

A little while later, Hazel kisses my cheek and leaves the house as the bus pulls up on the corner of the street. I've never actually seen it come down here, but that's because I leave before it ever arrives. It's weird seeing it. I watch it leave after Hazel steps on, and she waves at the house through the window. “Are you leaving yet?” Persephone asks. I don't move from the couch.

I wonder if they're going to force me to leave.

Deciding to push my luck, I lounge around on the couch and flick through channels on the television. I get a text; phone letting out a harsh series of vibrations in my pocket. I pull my phone out; Will. Humming, I look down at his text. I guess it makes sense that he wants to know where I am. What I text back is close enough, in my opinion.

You sent:

_dead_

at 08:25 AM

Close enough. Kinda. It's whatever, really, I think Will's smart enough to translate that to: being a little shit and seeing how long my dad's good mood will let me push.

Upon looking back into the kitchen, he's returned to his note-taking, seemingly unbothered of my presence. His lovely girlfriend, on the other hand. Well, she looks like she wants to break something. Maybe my bones, but whatever. I don't give a fuck, returning to the mindless cartoons. Shut up, there's no such thing as being too old.

For a few minutes, it's only the sound of the television in both rooms. Maybe the scribble of Hades' pen on paper, turned pages, but not much else. It's dull, but the conversation I'm having with will is amusing to an extent. Worrying Mother Hen is what he is. Then comes a text from Jason, which is surprising, because when the fuck ever has he texted me during class?

I don't read it immediately. I just let my phone rest on the table, and frown at it. With a huff, I turn onto my side and watch it dance around as it vibrates on the surface. The sound rattles through the relative quiet.

Persephone lets out a sigh, all the way from the kitchen, but I pay no mind. There's more scribbling – aggressive; he's scratching something out. I wonder what it is. Out of curiosity, I stand and stroll over and peer down at the open folder just thrown around. I pick up the little picture: weak jaw, gross mustache, glazed eyes. Wan, gaunt, rot settled on the side of his face. He'd been dead a while. I don't recognize him, so I slip the picture back under the paper clip and look at the info.

NAME: _Joseph Casey_

AGE: _37_

Ouch. Age didn't do Casey well. I hum, glancing down at the time of death, date of birth and all that. Found a couple days ago, apparently, but had been dead longer. Born sometime in spring. Joseph Casey – doesn't ring any bells, but I've hated every motherfucker that lives here since I was dumped into Hades' care, so it's no surprise.

“Where'd you find him?” I ask. Hades shrugs, “Down by the freeway. Somebody hit him,” He points to the rot seeping into the side of his face; makes sense. The care would've left damage; the bacteria would've infected that before something came along and ate the rest of him. “Didn't stop, and the body found itself off the bridge and left there until some teenagers stumbled on it.”

I drag a chair relatively close, so I can still see what's going on, “Huh. Cases?” Hades shakes his head, “It's the freeway that leads out of the state. Driver's probably somewhere else by now, so it's out of our hands.” It's the strangest shit we fucking bond over. If it can be called bonding.

Persephone doesn't look happy.

Hades ignores her, continuing without being prompted, “Charon found traces of alcohol in his stomach, and somebody else's fingernail in his scalp.” I raise an eyebrow, confused, “...Drink brawl?” Hades shakes his head, “Swabs show semen in his mouth.” I scrunch my nose, “Dunk blowjobs.” He chuckles at that, nodding, “Must've been drunk when he went out into the road.” I nod, humming as I glance back down at the folder, “Family?” His jaw tenses a little bit, “Daughter. Five years old, partial custody.” I wince, “Yikes.”

I'm reminded of the fact that Poseidon will have a new boy to the group by the end of the week. I bring it up, looking at my dad. He shrugs, nodding, “Yeah, something like that. Be nice.” With that, I roll my eyes and grab another folder.

A woman; Hispanic, I think. Curly hair, thin. “I didn't know Appleseed died.” Dad nods, “Heart attack.” I snort, “'Bout fuckin' time.” Bitch owned the little newsagent that Dakota works at. Persephone cuts in, “Don't you have school?” Rolling my eyes, I glance back down at Ms Appleseed's folder, “Fell down the stairs, too. What'd she break?”

Hades continues writing down stuff, “Jaw; two of her bottom incisors fell out. Snapped her neck how she landed. No chance of recovery.” Grinning, I sigh, “Wish I'd seen that. Goddamn stinge, she was, overpricing Playboy magazines.”

He squints at me for a moment; it's genuine perplexity as he says, “Why would you be after Playboy mags?” I shrug, “It was an art project.” It's funny watching him stare at me for a moment, before cracking into a scarily knowing smile, “Thought you'd give the teacher a surprise?” I nod, “Got a B minus, but what the fuck ever. Didn't appreciate my artistic skill.”

I flinch a little when his big hand moves to ruffle my hair. It's a shock, but he either doesn't notice or doesn't comment. It's the latter, because my father is an unbelievably observant fucker.

“No seriously, you're missing class right now.” Persephone glares at me. I shrug, “That's cool. What're you gonna do 'bout it, bitch?” Hades sighs, running a hand through his hair. There're a few grays coming through, but other than that, he's still got his thing going for him.

It's weird to think about my dad like that, but it explains where more of my look came from.

“Leave him be, Persephone. He's not hurting anyone.” I prop my chin on my hand, batting my eyelashes at his girlfriend with a grin, “Yeah 'Sephone, I'm not hurting anybody.” I'm liking this new power. Fuck yeah, man. My phone suddenly starts spitting out my ringtone. I jog over to it, picking it up and staring at the screen.

**Brotherly Disappointment TM is calling you:**

Fuck. Reluctantly I answer, strolling out into the hallway, “Sup Jay.” He sighs, “Where are you? You've got Will worried.” I bite my lip, shrugging as I take a seat on the stairs, “At home.” The blond hums again, sounding tired. Makes sense; it's _me_ he's talking to. And, well, y'know. I'm a fucking brat. “Why's that?”

I shrug a little, subdued. My eyes wander to the house phone resting on the side-table. It's different; did I break the old one? This one is blue instead of yellow. Huh. “Well, y'know, I stayed behind 'cus sis was getting' the fucking bus today, and all that shit. Then I just.” Didn't leave.

“I mean, the asshole's not said anything, so I'm just...” I shrug again, suddenly very unsure and uncertain. For some unexplainable reason. He seems to pick this up, tone softening a little, “You okay there bud? You sound...worried.” Which is fucking weird in itself, because I'm never worried. Nodding jerkily, I brush him off, “Yeah, I'm good. It's whatever, man.” He's quiet. “Look,” Dragging a hand down my face, I suddenly feel jittery, “I'll swing by 'round lunch, 'kay?”

Jason lingers a little longer, “Sounds good, Neeks.” I scoff, “Shuddup, Jay. Nobody's called me that for years.” I hear the soft smile in his voice, all stupidly smothering and loving like some big brother, “Nobody's called you Cactus in years, either, but it still fits.”

It wrenches the tiny, pathetic giggle out of me, “Just -” I shake my head, resting it against the handrail, “Shut it, Sparky.” He sighs heavily, in this disgustingly fond way, “When pigs fly, Cactus.” I scrunch my nose, “Well, I mean, Clarisse did fly in from Ohio recently.” He lets out a gasp, “Nico!” Smirking, I shrug, “What? She cant hear me.” Clarisse is chill. In a violent way. Like me.

“Well, whatever, okay. See you soon?” I correct him, “At lunch, Jay.” He sighs, “Thought I'd try.” Rolling my eyes, I mutter, “Later, Superman.” Then I hang up. A new text pops up, and it makes me smile. This gross, warm feeling settles into my chest.

**Brotherly Disappointment TM sent:**

_**you're great, yknow that?** _

**at 08:48 AM**

* * *

Later, maybe by an hour or two, Persephone seems to have finally had enough, “Go to school. You can't just laze around the damn house like this, or your grades will drop and you'll be a pathetic fucking highschool drop-out.” I shrug, closing my eyes as she strides with purpose over to me and bowing her body so she can get in my face, “Get the fuck out.”

Hades absconded upstairs about half an hour ago. Since then, this cunt has been sending me looks, passive aggressive comments, and other shit. I've ignored all of it, but it's sorta hard when she's blocking the television. “If dad doesn't have an issue with me here, then you can stick it up your ass, bitch.” She grits her teeth, before curling a fist in my hair and uprooting me from the couch, “Fuck off! Get the hell off me!”

Ouch. Ouch. _Ouch._

I flail a little, because whilst she's trying to drag me someplace, it twists me into an awkward position. Grappling at her hand, I try and unclench her fingers from my hair, “I swear to fucking god -”

“Thought you didn't believe in god, you little shit.”

“It's a figure of goddamn speech now get off -”

“No! Get your ass out of the house.”

I kick her. Somewhere. Not like I care, it's enough to make her drop me. I hit the floor: hard. The wind's knocked out of me as I blink owlishly at the ceiling. I stumble back to my feet – how the fuck did I get winded from falling _on the floor?_ Shaking it off, I skirt around Persephone to the stairs, taking them three at a time as I hear her heels clack loudly on the floor. Shit shit shit -

“Get back here, you little shit! Don't think hiding behind daddy's gonna save your skinny ass!”

Jealous much? Just because I have a cute ass and she doesn't. Ha. I'm skinnier than a goddamn malnourished stray dog.

I sprint down the hallway, skidding to a stop just in time to squeeze through the gap in my door. I slam it shut behind me, pressing myself up against it even though I know she wont fit through. Wont be able to squeeze her ego through the door.

I listen cautiously, only hearing the thud of my own heartbeat. Which is strange, because – fuck, what am I worried about? Why am I breathing so quickly, why is there a clamminess to my palms, why are my fingers trembling? My throat is dry when I swallow, my vision blurs when I blink, I taste blood in my mouth when I bite the inside of my cheek.

It feels like I'm underwater as I move to my bed. Which, y'know, even fucking weirder because what the fuck? When I sit down, it feels like settling so many kilos onto my mattress. Numb, nauseous, narcotic, my fingers brush over the rough surface of my bedpost. Where I sawed off her bed. _Oh gods._

**Her.**

Fuck. Fuck fuck.

My knees dig into my chest, fingers gripping at my hair tightly. I wont cry. Fuck if I'm crying, like hell am I tearing up over that bitch. It doesn't feel...real when my eyes start pricking and wet starts dampening my cheeks. Just...not quite there, a world away – Persephone's delicate fists slamming against my door feel like the walls are rattling around me.

With a deep inhale, it all stops. I wipe my face, standing up and shaking off whatever the _fuck_ that was. I'm good, I'm chill. I'm peachier than fucking peachy keen.

I grab my phone from my pocket, stare down at the blank screen. Splotchy red patches, red-rimmed eyes, clumped eyelashes. Great. Scowling, I let the device drop onto my desk, “Whatever.” After another series of deep breaths, it comes to my attention that a certain bitch is still wailing loudly outside my room. Except, there's another voice; Hades. Flopping back on my bed, I listen to the muffled voices.

“He needs to leave!”

“And why's that?”

“Because...because he's a nuisance!”

“He's not doing any harm.”

“He'll fail his grades.”

“Since when you were concerned about that?”

“I -”

“Just leave him alone, darling.”

Nico: 1 Persephone: 0. I grin, flexing my fingers a little as my attention wanders. The sun is low, as usual, outside my window. A blotch of red on an orange backdrop. It's sounds romantic, but it looks like a scene from those western movies. Y'know, the ones where everything living has been dead for a long, long time.

Across the street is Poseidon's house. Poseidon himself is off working; away out from the harbor somewhere. Tyson's at school; it's either me or Triton that go to pick him up, if I swing by Hazel's school. I think it's Triton's turn today, because I can see him lounging about on the porch. His day off from his part-time job. All that fucker can sustain, really. No surprise there. But...I'm not so sure. With the question in mind, I shuffle over to my window and slip out. I hear the door open just as I leave.

There's false confidence in my step as I stalk over. Triton's eyes snap to me as I step foot on the lawn. “Yo,” I greet, walking until I lean against the support beam. He sneers at me, lip curled in this ugly way, “The fuck do you want, di Angelo?” I shrug, “Wanted to know if you wanted me to pick up Ty today.”

He scoffs, angrily dropping his feet on the banister, “What makes you think I can't do it myself?” I roll my eyes, “Just tryna be nice.” I don't like how he narrows his eyes – they're an unattractive shade of green; snotty, kinda blank like a shark. They put his dad's eyes to shame, but y'know. It's whatever. “Since when the fuck have you ever been nice, di Angelo?” Ouch. Guess I deserve that.

“Look man, do you want me to pick him up or not?” Triton shakes his head, making a shooing motion with his hands, “I've got it handled.” The dismissal is clear, so I turn and walk back up the drive, and turn to the sidewalk. As I start strolling away, I hear him call me back. “Don't go telling everybody I said this,” I smirk at him; no promises. “But thanks for the offer.” Oh shit. I blink at him for a second, then shrug, “It's whatever.”

This time, I walk off, and he doesn't call me back.

* * *

Lunch hour's rolled around by the time I arrive on school grounds. Students are milling around, all that shit. I make my way behind the school to the parking lot; the familiar scrape of skateboard wheels grinding against the curb luring me closer. I lean against the fence, watching Lou kick around, pulling loops around Cecil. Reyna and Jason are in the window again, the Stolls are a little further off. The telltale cloud hangs around them.

Solace is...huh. I don't know, actually, because he's not here. Just as I start moving towards the group, a hand clamps onto my shoulder and pulls me back around the building. “Howdy Cowboy,” I mutter. Solace rolls his eyes, leaning against the wall, “Where the hell have you been, di Angelo?”

Shrugging, I stuff my hands in my pockets, “Around.” The blond levels me with a stern look, clearly unimpressed. It'd be more affective if it wasn't so clear how concerned he is. Which is complete bullshit, because when the fuck do I ever need to be worried about? ~~A lot of the time~~. “You could've texted or somethin', y'know, instead of jus' disappearin' like that.” Again, I shrug, letting my head hang, “Well, I'm here now.”

“Yeah, but for how long, Ghost King?” His question makes me stall, looking up at him with wide eyes. I wonder what he sees.

(“Yeah, but for how long, Ghost King?” I watch him stall, shoulders stiffening as he stares at his boots. Then, when he looks up to me, he's got eyes wider than a deer's and some sorta haunted, glazed-over expression whilst he loses himself for a moment. He looks like he's gonna bolt – spooked like a Black Beauty, and I don't reckon there's anything that's gonna calm him.)

Shaking my head, I slap on a grin, shrugging jerkily in a poorly composed bout of nerves, “Long as I want to be here, Sunshine.” Solace deflates a little, before he shakes his head and puts on his own smile, “Guess there's no tamin' you, huh?” I shake my head, grabbing his wrist and leading him out to the group, “Fuck no.”

He chuckles weakly, and I ignore the way it sounds like a pitiful croak. “Guess who finally decided to join us!” Lou shrieks, skidding to a stop just before she ran over my boots. Then her arms are around me suddenly, a shrill giggle in my ear. Rolling my eyes, I hug her back briefly, “Hey Lou.” She releases me, still grinning. It makes me feel sick; how she looks at me like I'm an entire universe, as if I'm a god.

I'm not – I'm a boy.

An angry little boy.

I tug at her hair a little – still blue and lilac and long and girlish – “Man, you gotta get this cut.” She snorts, flicking it over her shoulder, “Why? Don't you like long hair?” I shrug, scrunch my nose a little, “Doesn't suit you.” I near the window, waving to the two that hang in it, and I feel Reyna's eyes on the side of my head. Lou considers it, humming, “Wanna dye it green with me?”

I roll my eyes, “Why not Alabaster? I'm sure he'd have fun.” She nods, mutters something, but I don't really care. I just sorta wanna go home. Solace flusters and panics when Lou starts talking about abstract methods of cutting her hair, trying to offer some safer options. In that time, I shuffle over to Jason, thumping my head on his shoulder, “Why am I here.”

He smiles, ruffling my hair, “Because you said you'd be.” I did say that, huh? _Why the fuck did I say that._ I should've just stayed home, put up with the bitch just to have some peace and quiet. I sigh, hands from my pockets to my hair then resting behind my neck. Reyna cocks an eyebrow, “You look anxious.” I scowl, letting my hands drop, “Well I'm not. So fuck you.” She smirks, knowing, cunning, stupid Reyna and her stupid telepathy skills, “Does baby need somebody to whine to?” Jason gives her a disapproving look, but I'm not offended. This is Reyna; my Reyna, tough nut, brawny bitch, whip-smart and perceptive.

So I scoff, flipping her off, “Of fucking course not. Why the hell would I want to talk to people? They're so annoying.” Jason gives me a pensive look, however, but doesn't say anything.

I run a hand through my hair, looking down at Cecil. He leans heavily against my legs, and I guess it's his own way of saying he's glad to see me. A fight the smile trying to breach my face, but fail. I've missed these fuckers, hard as it is to admit. I haven't seen them all weekend, and – yeah, yeah, okay. I've been avoiding them.

For reasons. Maybe those reasons aren't as valid now that I look back, maybe they aren't the most reasonable of reasons and maybe those reasons are gonna make me look like an asshole – but at the time, they had made sense. Now I'm here, I see how they've all stumbled a little blind, a little lost, a little gone since I've been away and that's how it always is.

Because for some reason, this life put me in a pair of leader's boots, gave me a shepherd's cane.

I don't know whether to be resentful or grateful for that, but for now I'll stick with bitter. Cecil mumbles – something slurred, something stuttered and in the end it's only a half-thought. I kneel beside him anyways, “Come again?” His eyes struggle to stay open, mouth barely moving, “Where've youbeeena?” I roll my eyes, “Fucked off to Neverland.”

He groans, “You – you'realw's in Nevlnd.” I nod, “Yeah, always.” Cocking my head, I watch him stare into space. I wonder if he'd notice if I just walked away. Maybe; he's more observant than anybody fucking gives him credit for.

Standing back up, it's like something hits me. I wipe a hand down my face, fighting off this sudden...feeling – like earlier, like when I had the phone call, like _when she was fucking talking._ I stagger, I think, bumping against the wall. Solace looks over, “You okay?” I nod. (No, not really, it's fine.) Everything else blurs after that.

* * *

“Nico,” Jason sighs, grabbing my wrist and holding me back. I want to stomp petulantly, whine and and scratch at him until he gives up – but Jason wont. Because he's Jason, because he's got a big brother complex. Because he's a goddamn saint. “Nico, c'mere.”

Relenting, I let him turn me to face him. I raise an eyebrow, “What?” He gives me a long look, before letting out a sigh, “Are – are you _okay?_ ” I nod, feeling myself tense just at the question. Stilted; strained, stiffened, I look up at him. For a moment, I work my mouth – no sound comes out. Then, “Define _okay_ , Jay.” The look he gives me is – fuck, I don't know. A cross between troubled and trepidation. “Nico...” He pauses, before planting his hands on my shoulders (fuck, I can't run,) “Is this because of Bianca?”

The flinch from just her name is embarrassing; just her name alone is enough to unsettle me, and dear gods – “Nico, talk to me.” Jason squeezes my shoulders in a reassuring way, but it doesn't help much. “It's fine,” I mutter. He's not convinced; from the furrow in his eyebrows, to the frown on his mouth. “I'm here.” He releases me, sounding defeated. I hate to know that I'm the one that made him sound like that, but there's nothing I can do now.

“Look, I -” I clear my throat, shifting a little, “I gotta go, so.” Fuck, I hate how my voice went soft. Jason sighs, sad and heavily, “No you don't.” I grit my teeth, nodding, “I'll see you 'round, Superman.” Stalking past him, he doesn't try to stop me. There's another sad sound, “See you, Cactus.” Fuck, if that doesn't hurt, I don't know what does.

What words are there for this? (Downhearted, downcast, down.) The streets are lonely. They're always lonely, I don't really get why it feels any different. Shit, it's the same sun, the same sky, the same clouds, same everything. It's all the fucking same.

I'm a walking oxymoron! I don't like change, but I hate when shit stays the fucking same. Don't know what that says about me, but who the fuck knows, maybe it's a _positive_ thing. With my luck, it isn't. Well, now, it's not fucking good anyway, that's self ex-fucking-planatory.

If I leave, I'll be doing these people wonders.

 ~~If I die, I'll be doing this world a fucking favor~~.

Oh hey, look at that, I've broken into a run.

Y'know those moments – the ones where you sorta...detach? Y'know, you just sorta feel like you're watching something from an outsider's perspective, your body doesn't feel like your own and you just want to collapse. That feeling, that sensation – let's say that's what's happening.

Sidewalk starts chipping away to sand. The air grows lighter; the breezes more powerful by the ocean. Upon first glance, nobody is around, and that' fine, that's great. That's fucking wonderful. I stumble to a stop by the rocks, teeth grit together as I rest my hands on my knees. “Fuck,” Is ejected from me; hoarse, harsh, hitched. Fuck. Fuck. _Fuck._

Goddammit, Bianca.

My knees throb when I fall to them, rock surface jagged and hard. The wash of the waves lapping up against my boots is refreshing, it's like the water's reaching out. A lot of people try to reach out. I think the ocean is the only thing I'll never push away. _That's fucking_ _ **sad.**_

I huff, leaning back on my hands. Loose stones dig into my palms; it's a welcome feeling. Eventually, I just recline onto my back, eyes closed. The sun's a red-hot heat on the back of my eyelids, instead of the same blank-dark I'd get if it was nighttime.

An amount of time passes; half an hour or so, before my solitude is disturbed by the crunch of shoes of sand-turned-gravel. Then there's that air again; purposeful, pompous, proud. Thalia. “What do you want, Grace.” The frown's evident in her tone, “Lil' bro said I should talk t'you.” I roll my eyes, “Of course he did.” She sits beside me gracelessly, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it, “So what's got you doldrums, girly?” I smirk, rolling my eyes, “Nothing. S'all good.”

Her icy eyes bore into me from above, “Bianca on your mind?” I scoff, shaking my head, “Fuck no. Haven't thought 'bout it once.” Nico di Angelo: the compulsive liar. Sighing, she rocks back and takes a hit. “Well, I'll tell you now, denial's getting' you nowhere.”

“Y'think I don't know that?”

“I think you suck at accepting the fact.”

“Yeah well nobody asked for your opinion.”

It's weak – far from anything I'd normally say. She hums, staring down at me, “Nico, Bia's coming back, and there's nothing to prevent it. What're you gonna do?” Closing my eyes, I avoid her gaze. “What're you gonna do?” She repeats, but I don't have an answer. With that, she stands, and I listen to her retreating footfalls.

When I'm sure she's gone, I sit up, looking out to the ocean. The sun clammers light across the surface; blinding brightness; a visually impairing vividity. I look away from it. (I don't know why I thought I could compare myself to sunlight. It'll always outshine me.)

The water's cold when I collide, the splash loud and the spray maybe hitting my phone back on the rock. I don't care too much. It's a shocking coldness that seeps through my clothes, straight to my core. Refreshing; renewing, rejuvenating: awakening. My eyes snap open, watching the pinks, the burning oranges and yellows of midday. The scarlet sun doesn't anger me as much as it did this morning.

The sensation of the water slipping through my fingers is symbolic of something. Maybe control, maybe composure, maybe care. The latter's been gone for a long time. Care left my grasp when I moved here. It comes with living in such a remote, damned place.

_What're you gonna do?_

Fuck if I know, but it ain't gonna be special. It ain't gonna be open arms, I'll tell you that. There's gonna be no smiles, no love, no remorse or regret for what comes out of my mouth next. _What're you gonna do?_ What _am_ I gonna do?

* * *

By the time I stumble back into the house, I have three missed calls from Jason, four texts – three of which are from Jason, one that's from Rachel. I answer Rachel; it'd been a request to maybe come and hang out at some point, give her a little inspiration for a gallery entry.

There's a voicemail from an unknown number, but I don't touch it.

I don't bother trying to climb to my room; my legs are shaking – fuck, I think everything is trembling from the cold and I can't lock my jaw together to keep from chattering. So I unceremoniously slam the door open, treading wet bootprints into the house. Hades has moved back downstairs from his bedroom/study, and he glances up at me as I close the door. He opens his mouth – maybe to greet me, maybe to scold me – but then he closes it.

It's strange, feeling him assess me like this. But I try to ignore it, shuffling past him to the fridge and drinking milk from the carton. His eyes never leave me. Once I've fallen onto the couch, he finally states, “You're drenched.”

“No shit.”

“What happened?”

“Went for a swim.”

“In your clothes?”

“Why not.”

The conversation comes to a standstill. There's the sound of his chair scraping back, papers fluttering a little as he moves around the table. I don't really register the fact that he comes to crouch by my head, “Are you okay?” I nod into the couch cushion, “Peachy.” Why does everybody need to ask that fucking question?

“Are you sure?”

I nod, “Yeah.”

Hades lingers a little longer, before, “Go have a shower. Put on some fresh clothes.” Then walks back to the table. It's a while before I move, but I make it to the bathroom and peel off my wet clothing. It's fucking _cold._ The hot water from the shower makes me gasp, but I bare it even though my skin starts going pink with how hard I scrub. It's fine. I use Hazel's lemon-lime shampoo. She wont mind. At least, I hope she doesn't. I fucking _like_ citrus.

Scampering to my room, towel loose around my waist, I don't expect to find somebody lounging around on my windowsill. It doesn't stop me from picking through the clothes on my floor, though. Jason chuckles – because of course it's fucking Jason – but I know for a fact he's looked away to save my dignity. I dry off quickly, tugging on a pair of jeans and some gray shirt, “What.” He runs a hand through his hair, “Prickly.” _Cactus._ I fucking swear to gods. “What.” I look up at him.

He holds his hands up in a placating way, before hopping off the windowsill and ushering me to my bed. “Buy me dinner first, Grace,” I grin. He turns pink, but traps me in a hug before I can say anything else, “ _Talk to me,_ Nico.” Shit. Not this again. I just spent the rest of my afternoon forgetting about it. Goddammit.

“There's nothing _to_ talk about, Jay.” He gives me a long look, before playing with strands of my still-wet hair, “There's never anything to talk about with you, anymore.” I squint, defensive, “What does that mean?” He huffs, “It means I'm worried! We're all worried! Do you know how much you mean to us?” I stop, biting my lip hard. This is my best friend; I should be listening to him. I don't do much of that anymore. Practically my big brother, and here I am just being ignorant.

“Sorry,” I deflate, shrugging helplessly, “But I...”

“I don't know anymore, Jay. Just know I'm fine.”

He shakes his head, “Do you know how fucking hard that is to believe right now? You've been twitchy since last week, and before then it was like you were -” He flails his hands a little, one landing in his hair and the other limp in his lap, “It's like you were _dying._ ”

The words don't sink in fully, leaving me breathless. “D-Dying?” I croak. He nods vigorously, looking pained. This deep-set ache, an agony, an affliction I can't really wrap my head around. I blink up at him, confused, “What – what'd give you that idea?”

There's this cynical, bitter grin that wretches his face and it doesn't suit him at all, “Oh _I dunno_ , Nico, maybe it was because you didn't speak a single word?! Wouldn't talk, wouldn't answer calls or texts – you completely shut off.” Sighing, I hide my face in my hands. “Sorry.” That's all I have to offer. His hand is warm on my back, “S'okay, just...reach out, Nico. We're not afraid to help you.” That's it. That's fucking _it_ , though!

I stand, throat hoarse and tight like I want to cry, but I've had enough of that today. “But _I can't!_ I can't! They – they – they hold me too fucking high for me to look _weak._ ” Jason looks despairing; sympathetic, pitying, and _fuck._ “I – I don't know what I'd do! Okay? Okay?! I don't know _what the **fuck**_ I'm gonna do when that bitch sets foot on my turf.” There. It's out.

“I don't know, I don't know anything, and they can't accept that. I – fuck.” Snarling, I turn and punch the wall. There's red smudges when I pull away. Jason, silent, hesitantly rests a hand on my shoulder. “Go away, Jason.” I can just imagine him shaking his head, “Nico...”

I step around him, pulling on a jacket, “Seriously. I want a cigarette.” I haven't had one all day. Maybe that's what makes me so infuriating. Jason gives me one more look before he sighs, defeated. “Call me if you need me.” With that, he lets himself out of my room and I listen to his footsteps down the hall. There's a muffled, brief conversation between him and my dad. Of course Jason asked if he could come over; he's too polite to just climb through my window.

_Shit._

Briefly, I stare at my cigarette pack peaking out of my soggy jacket. They'll be all wet now. Sighing, I wrestle them out of my pocket and drop them into the wastebasket.

They make a damp sound.

* * *

So Hades is probably gonna wonder where his rye whiskey went, but that's okay. I don't have a drinking problem. Shut the fuck up. But anyway, the bottle is now hidden among the rest. Under my bed. Until I find the urge to drag them all out and throw them away. But anyway. I can't see past my arm's length around me – that's either tears or intoxication. My head's fuzzy, white noise at the forefront of my mind, a head-splitting headache ebbing at the back.

I don't have a drinking problem.

Is it weird that I'm sorta used to this sensation? All the tipsiness; I can walk in a relatively straight line, I can count from one hundred backwards, I can spell my name and write it down semi-tangibly. Fucking whatever and whatever.

Y'know, it's not everyday that I drink up whatever's in Hades' cabinet, so really it can't be called a drinking problem. Right? Right. Shut up Nico. There's numbers on my alarm clock – they're red, somewhere in the AM, and it's at the time that any sane, sober person is asleep. I hiccup a little, sniffle through leftover tears and dragging my hand over my eyes.

I hurt. Like, inside. Y'know what I mean? Whatever. Fuck off, Nico. That's what everybody wants you to do anyway. Shit – is that me? I don't know what that is, but it sounds ugly and disgusting.

I don't have a drinking problem.

Suddenly my world is upside right and I still don't know where upside left is, but that's okay. My phone's somewhere. Some...where...there. On the floor, let's get that. I grab it, squint at the brightness. In future, I'll make sure the brightness gets dimmed at night. Fuck, man.

Uhg...contacts. Those are for you eyes. Right? Shut up Nico. _Candy Red_... _Cherry Bomb_... _Cowboy...Dopey..._ shit, does B come before C? Yeah, let's try that again. _Blue Bangs...Brotherly Disappointment TM_. There we go. Let's give him a call. The dialtone rings long, long, long and I nearly hang up before he answers. “N – Nico?” Shit did I wake him up?

Of course I woke him up, it's fucking three in the morning.

“G'back t'sleep.” Coherent. “What – you just called me?” Shaking my head, I run a hand through my hair, “N – No, f'ckin'...shuddup an' go t'sleep, 'kay? G'night.” I hang up. Then turn my phone on silent, so that he'll get the message and go back to sleep. _Fuck._

Fuck.

Fuck.

Fuck.

“Nico?” That's not 'fuck'. “Hazel?” Hazel. **Oh fuck.** “Hey, sweetie...g'back t'bed.” Do I sound tired? Let's hope she doesn't know the difference between shitfaced and sleepy. She pads into the room, coming to sit beside me on the bed, “Why're you still awake?” I shrug, wiping my face again. She gently brushes her fingertips under my eyes, “Are you crying?” Yes. “No.” I shake my head, “I'm – I'm fine, dolcezza. How about we get you back to bed, hm? Long day tomorrow.” God, I'm a piece of shit.

She gives me a worried look, but I gently grab her hand and stumble back to her bedroom. Hazel curls back up in her bed, and I duck low to kiss her forehead, “Sleep, yeah?” She nods. I smile, shutting the door. I turn back down the hall – “Come here, Nico.” _I'm fucked._

I turn steadily, blinking widely at Hades. I shuffle over towards him, looking at his shoes. The lamp's on in his bedroom, and I honestly don't want to fucking go in more than once in a month. But his hand is heavy on my shoulder, guiding me until the backs of my knees buckle against the bed. The room smells like lilacs and lavenders – mom's favorite. Mom never made it into this house, but her scent is everywhere.

Maybe...dad still uses that cologne she liked so much.

“Care to tell me why my whiskey's missing?” Busted. I shake my head, curling my knees to my chest. The comforter is so soft under me, but it's not the floral one my mom used to have back in Italy, no, it's just regular, navy-blue sheets. There's a picture of her on dad's nightstand, I know, but I don't dare look. “What about the twenty dollars from my wallet?” I shake my head again, shrugging. There's a deep sigh, before suddenly he's crouching before me. I've never seen his eyes so soft; it's terrifying. Petrifying, alarming, scary.

“How about why you're crying, at least?” I shake my head violently at that one, hiding in my knees. Hades tilts his head to the side, before prying me from my knees to look at him, “Nico, talk to me.” That's all people ever want me to do now days.

I shake my head.

Suddenly I'm being uprooted from lavender and lilac and the world's just a messy blur and I think I kick him. His arms hold fast around me as he walks around the bed, settling me under the comforter. I choke. Gently, he brushes a hand through my hair, runs circles into my shoulder. “Maybe later,” Hades simpers, “We'll talk about it tomorrow.” ( _No, no, no_ -)

My eyes flutter closed, and I don't open them. But I'm not yet asleep, and his weight is right behind me, sitting and just _there_. It's been a long, strange day. He's never been this...fatherly, I guess, never been this connected to earth as he is now and I wonder when this will end. I fall asleep to the feel of his hand in my hair.

* * *

When I wake up, I'm in my own bed, and it's like nothing ever happened. _It hurts._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> idfk

**Author's Note:**

> GUYS. GUYS, GUESS WHO GOT 'ROUND TO REWRITING THIS FUCKING PIECE OF SHIT. THAT'S RIGHT: _this guy_. 
> 
> okay, okay, okay. the first chapter is shit: they're all gonna be fucking shit, because this is _me_ we are talking about. But, yeah, to start off - first few chapters are gonna be NICO POV, but will not specifically be kept to the first five chapters, okay? I'll probably switch 'em back and forth between Percy and Nico, just to keep things a little entertaining. But after Chapter Five? All back to the present, with Nico in Nevada and Percy being a heartsick Little Boy Blue, just where we left off. 
> 
> I'm really sorry this took so fucking long to get around to, I've just been really busy with shit. If you looked at the notes in those pathetic excuses for one-shots and stupid cousin-incest shit that nobody's into, you'll see I've just had a lot on my plate, and hopefully you guys can forgive me. Also, I'm slowly going back through [A Mother's Cautionary Tale](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11026983/chapters/24575760) and fixing up mistakes or inconsistencies within the pattern of setup I like to use when writing. so, y'know, if you haven't read that shitty thing yet, then I suggest you should (look at that self-inserted promo right there.)
> 
> Sorry that this isn't as long a first chapter as the other fic had been; I just feel that there's less need for introduction, now that we've gotten all the way to some half-assed addition to the series. But, uh, also apologizing for the fact that there's a lot less of a turbulent, violent inner-Nico dialogue? Because I know that was a prominent thing in AMCT, but i feel that is more due to Percy's part on opening Nico up a little. so with Nico being all bottled up, he's glossing over a lot of the anguish he feels towards - well, everything (Persephone, Bianca, Hades, etc.) Hope that clears some stuff up.  
> ANYWAY. Hope you guys enjoyed this first chapter to the _"NEW AND IMPROVED"_ rewrite. Also; if anybody has some suggestions, please fucking help me with both the Chapter Title and the story's Title, because they're both shit and need working on. Fucking hell, welcome back.


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